The Archer's Guide to the Galaxy
by BstnStrg13
Summary: Oliver Queen is the young, highly successful CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. Felicity Smoak is his effective but quirky assistant. Each harbors a secret: He's destined to be a hero and save his city. She's from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. A definitely AU, but Mostly Harmless Arrow origin story.
1. Forward

I was cleaning out my closets about a year ago and ran across my much-loved and well-used copies of Douglas Adams' _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ books. I immediately sat down and re-read the first three, forgetting all about the cleaning. They were as funny as I remembered, and - somehow - this story popped into my head. I held off writing it because I wanted to finish all my open stories first. However, every time I sat at the PC, dialogue for this story would emerge. I finally decided to start writing it because it was interfering with everything else. And it worked to some extent, because I'm back writing _Felicity Takes a Holiday_ now too.

There should be enough explanation here for you to follow the story, whether or not you're a fan of _Arrow_ and/or _Hitchhiker's Guide_. If you want a visual, the _Arrow_ characters are (of course) from the CW TV series, and the story is pretty heavily OTA. The _Hitchhiker's Guide_ characters, to the extent that they appear, are from the book and the old BBC TV series. If your only exposure to _Hitchhiker's Guide_ is the movie, then for the love all that's holy, either read the books or watch the old BBC series (which I recently saw available on Hulu). Much as I love Martin Freeman, the movie did not do the story justice.

Finally, I don't typically bother with disclaimers because I think we all know that the definition of fanfiction is taking someone else's characters out for a spin. We didn't create them and we don't own them. However, in this case, I borrow pretty heavily from Mr. Adams in a few instances, so I want to emphasize that the story was written purely for my own amusement and not for any sort of compensation.

Enjoy. As always, I love to hear your feedback.


	2. Part 1 Prologue: Destiny

Far out in the backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Milky Way Galaxy lies a small, unremarkable sun. At the age of 4.6 billion years this sun is considered middle-aged, although it rarely displays any symptoms of a mid-life crisis apart from the occasional solar flare. Orbiting this sun at a distance of 93 million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet, too tiny to be seen from even the next closest star. Located in what scientists like to call the Goldilocks Zone, the planet teems with life; everything from single-cell bacteria to complex, bipedal lifeforms capable of walking upright and obsessed with counting their steps using wrist-borne fitness trackers – much to amusement of the more intelligent species on the planet.

While small and far from glamorous, the blue-green world has much to recommend it. It is covered with large rolling oceans, majestic snow-capped mountains and mysterious, pine-scented forests. Compared to the acid-laden atmosphere and razor sharp silicon beaches of the Yed Posterior planetary system, for example, it is a paradise. Yet despite these wonders, many of the bipedal lifeforms living on it are unhappy for much of the time – even the ones who achieve 10,000 steps a day on their fitness trackers. Numerous solutions have been suggested to solve this problem, but most involve the movement of electrons in the form of Twitter followers, posts on Instagram, and Facebook Likes and have been largely unsuccessful. Perhaps it is because, on the whole, it isn't the electrons that are unhappy. Indeed, their propensity for utterly random, carefree movement goes far in explaining the sizeable social media presence of certain celebrities...and politicians.

Geologists living on the blue-green world estimate that, like its sun, it too is 4.6 billion years old. These Geologists use a complicated technique called _radiometric dating_ to determine the age of the rocks on the planet, and thus the age of the planet itself. They confidently explain to anyone willing to listen how their procedure measures the quantity of a naturally occurring radioactive isotope to ascertain the planet's years with considerable precision. The Creationists living there dispute this method vigorously and claim that radiometric dating is, in fact, a load of dingo's kidneys. They cite a book written several thousand years ago by unknown authors with uncertain educations as evidence that the planet is really no more than 10,000 years old.

And the youth of the planet believe that radiometric dating is how their grandparents connected before Tinder became available.

Naturally, the truth is that they are all wrong.

Because the blue-green planet, otherwise known as the Earth, is not the product of the gradual accretion of dust and gas and interstellar collisions as the Geologists assert, nor is it the result of divine creation. Instead, the Earth was _manufactured_ , built by none other than the legendary planet-makers of Magrathea. And it was built to order with a very specific purpose in mind.

 _Cosmipedia_ , a free and therefore popular source of information on the Galactic Internet, has this to say about Magrathea and Earth:

 _Designed by the computer_ Deep Thought _at the request of a race of hyperintelligent, pandimensional beings, the original Earth was manufactured on the planet Magrathea and placed in orbit around an obscure yellow dwarf star roughly ten million years ago. The Earth remains to this day the most sophisticated computer ever built, and even incorporated organic matter as part of its core processor_. _It was designed to accurately determine the ultimate question of Life, the Universe and Everything (hereafter referred to as The Question), after_ Deep Thought _computed the ultimate Answer to be 42. Unfortunately, the original Earth was mistakenly demolished to make way for a hyperspace express route minutes before its calculations were scheduled to complete, leaving The Question unknown._

 _A second version of the planet, cleverly called Earth-2,_ _was requisitioned by executive order of the Galactic President to resume computation of The Question. However, this plan was not without controversy. The Union of Philosophers, Sages and Independent Intellectuals (UPSII) lobbied vigorously to stop construction of Earth-2, arguing that their industries would be decimated if The Question became known to everyone. The militaries on many planets also protested, concerned that knowledge of The Question might lead to peace, love and understanding throughout the Galaxy and thus eliminate the need for armies._

 _In the end, the Earth-2 project was scrapped; not as a result of the protests, but largely through indifference. Once Galactic scientists hypothesized that knowledge of The Question and The Answer is mutually exclusive, public interest in The Question waned and the Galactic Congress cut funding for the Earth-2 project._

 _At this time, the status of Earth-2, now also referred to as The Earth, is unknown. Many believe it was destroyed as well._

 _Cosmipedia_ then goes on to note that this entry lacks citations and requests that users update it with further information. It also reminds readers that the website is a nonprofit maintained primarily through donations and encourages users to send funds – as generously and frequently as possible.

Had the present inhabitants of Earth known of the existence of _Cosmipedia,_ or indeed the Galactic Wide Web, they certainly could have contributed further to the entry. For example, they could have noted that the planet had _not_ been destroyed and was, in fact, circling around that same obscure dwarf star (albeit in a modified orbit to accommodate the express route) as the original Earth. However, Earth's citizens remained ignorant of the Galactic Internet and of life outside of their planet in general. Given their propensity for trolling, this was probably just as well. There are many races in the Milky Way that are thin-skinned and take offense at even the smallest insult. On Hobson – 3B4, for example, a derogatory post made by one man about his neighbor's mother's biscuits led to the Great Biscuit War of '18. The conflict lasted fifty years and culminated in a planetary ban on nearly all baked goods.

The fact that the majority of the population in the Galaxy was equally unaware of Earth didn't hurt either.

For a few, select individuals, however, this was all about to change. One Earthman in particular, would soon learn of his planet's history and purpose, and in doing so, discover his own destiny. He would learn that he had the makings of a hero.

Our story doesn't start there, however. When our story begins, our future hero has no more idea of his fate than a butterfly knows its wings may produce a hurricane. And the story starts very simply – in an office where a man has just quit his job…


	3. Chapter 1

"What do you mean, _he quit_?"

The question came from Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Consolidated, and was directed at Ted McGreevy, QC's SVP for Human Resources. They were standing in Oliver's office on the 50th floor of the Queen high-rise in Star City. It was barely eight o'clock in the morning.

McGreevy thought the words _he quit_ were pretty self-explanatory. They'd been in use for thousands of years; in fact, there was probably an Egyptian _He Quit_ hieroglyph dating back to the first guy who decided he didn't want to work on a pyramid any longer. But McGreevy refrained from expressing this opinion aloud. As CEO, Oliver also happened to be Ted's boss - even if he was a good 20 years younger than Ted, with a flat stomach and a chiseled jaw that belonged in a men's cologne ad. Oliver had taken over as head honcho when his father, Robert, had died three years ago. He was pretty decent to work for and - more importantly – he had increased the value of Ted's QC stock by more than $500 K. In his short tenure as CEO, Oliver had transformed Queen Consolidated from a solid, if slightly dull performer, to a rock star. So if he got a little impatient from time to time, McGreevy was going to cut him some slack.

"I mean, Oliver," Ted said carefully, "that Sam Agnew sent me an email early this morning tendering his resignation, effective immediately."

Oliver frowned. "And that doesn't seem a little odd to you? Immediately? Not even two weeks' notice?"

Ted nodded. "Sure it seems odd. The man's been with the company for thirty years. He's your Executive Assistant and he was your father's EA before you. I would have expected a couple of months' notice, let alone two weeks. But it happens." He said it with the assurance of his own twenty-plus years' experience in HR.

Oliver shook his head. "I don't believe it. There's something else going on. Sam knows we have the quarterly call with the Wall Street analysts tomorrow. The stock rises or falls based on what those analysts have to say. There's no way he would just up and quit _today_ unless there's a problem. I rely on him to prepare for that call – he _knows_ that."

Ted nodded once again. "I did try calling him, but I didn't get an answer."

"Something's wrong then," Oliver repeated firmly.

Ted glanced out the large windows of his boss's ultra-modern office. It was a clear day and the glass skyscrapers on the Star City skyline sparkled in the early morning sun. Oliver had a tendency to be a bit paranoid, but then Ted thought he probably had good reason. There were plenty of seasoned but less successful CEOs who would be delighted to see the young man fail. And strange things sometimes happened at QC, especially to Oliver. Who else had two cars go up in flames in the space of three years?

In this case, however, Ted was confident things were normal. "Actually, Oliver, I think something went very right for Sam. He said in his email that he won the lottery."

"The lottery?" Oliver frowned. "Sam doesn't play the lottery."

"Well, he must have this time, because he said he won and he said it was a pretty big prize."

"How big?"

"Four hundred million dollars."

Oliver's eyebrows went up. After a brief pause he replied stubbornly, "That doesn't explain him resigning _immediately_. Even if he did win – which I doubt – he would _still_ come in today to help prepare for the analysts call. Sam's always been very loyal to QC."

Ted thought privately that $400 million might be enough to test anyone's loyalty. However, to Oliver he merely said, "I'm guessing it's come as a bit of a shock to Sam."

"Especially since Sam _doesn't play the lottery_. I've heard him say many times that he thinks it's just throwing money away – the odds against winning are astronomical."

Ted nodded. "Winning is highly improbable, that's for sure."

Oliver's face hardened. "It's infinitely improbable when you don't buy a ticket."

Ted wasn't inclined to argue. Math was not his strong suit; it was one of the reasons he was in HR and not finance or engineering.

 _Cosmipedia_ has a brief entry on lottery mathematics. It notes that the odds of picking 6 numbers out of the 49 on a typical lottery ticket are 1 in 13,983,816. It then goes on to say that these odds are far worse than the probability of being struck by lightning (1 in 960,000), being dealt a Royal Flush in straight poker (1 in 649,740), or even getting a reservation at Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, on New Year's Eve (1 in 4,420,642).

Unaware of any of these odds and indeed of _Cosmipedia_ , Ted _was_ cognizant of the fact that the vein in Oliver's right temple was beginning to bulge. It typically happened when his CEO was presented with a serious problem and no solution - and it was _not_ a good sign. The general rule among Oliver's direct reports was that once you saw The Vein, you had five minutes to offer a useful suggestion; if you couldn't come up with anything in that time, you should get out of his office and come back later. Hopefully, someone else had solved the problem in the interim. Try as he might, Ted didn't have anything useful to offer Oliver at the moment. However, he wasn't quite ready to concede defeat. He liked Oliver Queen for the most part. The kid was decent – more decent than his old man had been – and Ted wanted to see him succeed. And he still had five minutes.

He said a little desperately, "Maybe you can ask someone else to help finalize the material for tomorrow's meeting? What about the CFO? He certainly should be on top of the financials."

Oliver shook his head. "Walter's on a business trip," he said, referring to QC's Chief Financial Officer, Walter Steele. "He's sitting on a plane to Singapore as we speak."

Crap. "What about Walter's EA?"

"He's on the trip as well."

The Vein was becoming more prominent and Ted figured he'd used up two of his five minutes. He desperately searched his brain for another suggestion and came up blank.

There was the sound of a throat clearing in the doorway to Oliver's office. Both Ted and Oliver turned to see Oliver's bodyguard, John Diggle standing there.

"Excuse me, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver nodded. "Yes, John?"

"I'm not sure you're aware of it, sir, but Sam Agnew got help preparing for the quarterly call from a woman in IT. She wrote all the Excel macros that he uses to analyze the data and generate the charts."

Oliver frowned. "A woman in _IT_? That seems a strange place to go for help. He never said anything to me about it."

 _Me neither_ , Ted McGreevy thought, but stopped himself from saying the words. Sam Agnew was 55, part of the generation that didn't grow up using a personal computer. Like Ted and most of their contemporaries, he was comfortable enough with email and could put a few pictures into PowerPoint, but he wasn't a wizard with a PC. It didn't surprise Ted that Sam had sought help with the complicated stuff. What did surprise him, however, was _where_ Sam had gone for help _and_ that the bodyguard knew about it. It seemed outside the scope of his protection duties.

Ted studied John Diggle as subtly as he could. Diggle certainly looked like he belonged in security. He was impeccably dressed in a black suit, white shirt and dark tie, and he was big. Oliver himself was over six feet, and Diggle easily topped him by a couple of inches. His waist was narrow, his shoulders were broad and his arms were the size of Ted McGreevy's legs. His age was tough to determine. His dark skin was smooth and Ted's first guess would have been that Diggle was in his early thirties. On closer examination, though, he revised that estimate upward by a few years. The man's eyes were full of the intelligence and wisdom that only comes with age.

It was a strange job, Ted thought, to spend your life following another man around, guarding him from physical threats. Diggle spent most of his day seated in the reception area outside of Oliver's office with his smartphone and a book of crossword puzzles. The fact that the office was essentially an enormous fishbowl with smoked glass walls made it easy for Diggle to keep an eye on his client. Oliver's father had never bothered with a bodyguard; he thought they were silly. But then Robert Queen had died in suspicious circumstances – circumstances that had nearly claimed Oliver as well – and rumor was that Oliver's mother insisted on her son having round-the-clock protection. Overall, the kid didn't seem to mind. And Ted had to admit that John Diggle had a gift for fading into the woodwork when the situation called for it, despite his impressive size.

Ted felt a small prickle on the back of his neck and realized that John Diggle was scrutinizing him as subtly as he'd been trying to study Diggle. For a brief second he thought he saw an amused look in the man's dark eyes, but when he blinked the bodyguard was once more staring impassively at his boss.

Oliver ran a hand through his cropped, light brown hair. "Does this woman work in the building?" he asked Diggle.

Diggle nodded.

"A degree in Computer Science doesn't exactly qualify her to pull together financial statements."

"Mr. Agnew thought she was very good with numbers, sir."

Oliver shrugged. "Well, I don't have any better suggestions and we're under the gun. Do you have any other ideas, Ted?"

McGreevy shook his head.

"Then why don't you see if you can get this woman up to my office. What's her name, John?"

"Felicity Smoak, sir."

Oliver laughed. It was the first sign of humor he'd shown this morning. "Are you sure? Felicity Smoke sounds like the name of Bond Girl or an exotic dancer."

"It's S-M-O-A-K, Mr. Queen, not S-M-O-K-E," Diggle replied soberly. He didn't appear the least bit amused by Oliver's exotic dancer comment.

Oliver waved one hand. "Whatever. I don't care if she _is_ an exotic dancer as long as she can generate the numbers. Ted, can you have someone from HR locate her and get her up here? Make sure she knows she's not in trouble."

Ted nodded, grateful to have something useful to do and grateful that the problem was no longer his to solve. "On my way, Oliver. I'll fetch her myself."

"Thanks."

* * *

When Felicity Smoak - spelled S-M-O-A-K - appeared in his office 30 minutes later, Oliver was certain there had been a mistake. John Diggle had used the word "woman" but the person standing before him looked like a girl. He figured she must be nearly 10 years younger than he was, and he was still a few months shy of 30. She didn't look much older than his kid sister, Thea, and she had an air of innocence that Thea hadn't worn since she was ten. Diggle's disapproving expression at Oliver's exotic dancer remark suddenly made perfect sense.

He wondered how on earth Sam had picked her to help with the quarterly review material – how Sam had even known she _existed_. There were 50,000 employees at QC. She couldn't have been at the company long and she didn't work in Finance; both were logical credentials for the task. She was blonde, on the small side and wore glasses. Pretty enough, he supposed, to catch a man's eye – although Oliver himself preferred taller women. But Sam was old enough to be her father and Oliver had never known him to check out female employees. To Felicity's credit, she appeared surprised at being called to the CEO's office but she didn't look intimidated.

"Felicity Smoak?" Oliver asked, just to be sure.

She nodded.

He extended his hand. "My name's Oliver Queen and I think you can help me."

She shook his hand awkwardly. He waited for her to ask how she could help him but she remained silent, observing him as if he were an alien species. It was not at all the look he was used to receiving from women – young or old. Typically women looked at him as if they'd like to get to know him better…a _lot_ better. He found her reaction unusual but also kind of refreshing.

After a few seconds of silence he continued, "I hear that you help my EA, Sam Agnew, generate the numbers for the quarterly review?"

She nodded again.

"Well, you might be surprised to learn that Sam gave his notice this morning."

She frowned and didn't look surprised at all. "He won the lottery," she said quietly.

How the hell did she know that? "Sam told _you_?" he asked.

She blushed. "I heard it through the grapevine."

That was one hell of a grapevine, Oliver thought. He'd only found out about it an hour ago and he was Sam's boss. "It's pretty improbable," he added.

She shrugged. "The odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 13,983,816. Better, if you buy more than 1 ticket. Did you know that 13,983,816 is evenly divisible by 42? It goes in 332,948 times."

Oliver blinked. "No," he said slowly, "no, I didn't know that. Very interesting." He wasn't sure what else to say. Was she some kind of math savant? "Sam didn't play the lottery," he finally stated. He didn't know why, but it seemed important to keep making that point. "The grapevine doesn't happen to know where Sam is now?" he added.

She shook her head.

Figured. "So, Felicity," he continued brightly, "given the work you did with Sam, do you think you can pull together the numbers for the quarterly review today?"

She nodded once more. "Sure, no problem. Can I use your computer, Mr. Queen?"

He gestured toward his desk in the universal sign for _have a seat_.

She looked at him questioningly, as if unsure of the meaning of the gesture. After a few seconds she walked tentatively over and sat down. Then she laughed.

"Something funny?" Oliver asked.

"Your computer," she responded. "I mean, you're the CEO. I figured you'd have something really high end. This thing," she pointed at his laptop, "is a clunker."

"Do you need to get your own computer to run the numbers?"

She shook her head. "No, I can use this. But after we're done I'll see what I can do to get you a better laptop. I work in IT, after all."

"Sounds good."

* * *

Oliver stepped with Diggle into his apartment building elevator and pushed the button for the penthouse suite. The elevator remained stationary until he added the six digit code that allowed him to go up to the 42nd floor. Oliver liked the security in his building. He'd become something of a celebrity after taking over as CEO at QC and there were plenty of days when he could feel the stares of strangers as he went about his business. His apartment offered him privacy as well as safety.

It was an early evening for him – he rarely got home by 7:00. Felicity Smoak had turned out to be far more efficient than Sam Agnew in generating the quarterly review data and quite the magician with PowerPoint. When Oliver and his former EA put the review package together they were often in the office until 10:00. Felicity had produced the numbers, created the charts and triple-checked the figures in far less time. The financials looked great and he anticipated no issues in tomorrow's call.

He glanced at the brightly lit elevator button indicating his floor. In a day that had been full of numbers, this particular one seemed to stand out. He felt like he was seeing it for the first time. "Do you ever think about numbers, John?" he asked his bodyguard conversationally.

"Numbers, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver nodded. "Numbers." He smiled wryly, surprised at himself for bringing up the topic. It wasn't like him to wax philosophical, especially with Diggle. For all the time they spent together, they rarely discussed anything personal. "I was just thinking how you can be completely oblivious to a specific number and then suddenly it feels like you see it everywhere," he said.

Diggle glanced at him blankly. "I can't say that I've ever had that thought, Mr. Queen."

Oliver sighed, momentarily distracted from his musings. "You've been my bodyguard for almost three years, John. Don't you think it's time you called me 'Oliver'?"

"I don't feel comfortable doing that, Mr. Queen."

"Does it bother you that I call you 'John', then? Should I be calling you 'Mr. Diggle'?"

"'John' is fine, sir. Or you can call me 'Dig', if you like. My friends call me 'Dig'."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. Given that Diggle shadowed him almost every waking moment, he was surprised to learn that the man _had_ any friends. "Would you prefer 'Dig' to 'John'?"

His bodyguard gave the smallest of shrugs. "Either is fine, Mr. Queen." After a brief pause he added, "Now what was it you were saying about numbers?"

Oliver was beginning to be sorry he had brought the topic up. They probably should have stared silently at their shoes, the way most people did in the elevator. "I was just saying how you can be unaware of a specific number and then, suddenly, it seems like you're surrounded by it," he said reluctantly. He pointed at the elevator panel. "Take forty-two, for instance. I live on the forty-second floor. The latest revenue projections for QC will put us at number forty-two on the Fortune Five Hundred list. And Felicity Smoak told me today that the odds of winning the lottery with a single ticket are evenly divisible by forty-two. It feels like all roads lead to forty-two," he finished lamely.

"Very interesting, sir."

Oliver glanced at Diggle. "Right. You think I'm nuts."

"Not at all, sir."

"But you don't buy into my theory about numbers."

Diggle paused. "Well, forty-two is an important number in baseball," he offered helpfully.

"It is?"

"It's Jackie Robinson's number, the first black man to play in the Majors. It's been retired. No player can ever wear it again."

Oliver nodded thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten about that."

"And there forty-two laws in cricket, sir."

Oliver turned to study the man. "I never figured you for a fan of cricket, John."

Diggle shrugged. "I watch a little on TV. Your cable service includes a number of international channels."

"Oh."

The elevator _dinged_ and the door opened to reveal the front hallway of Oliver's penthouse. He owned the entire 42nd floor, with his living quarters taking up two thirds of it. The remaining space was split between a smaller apartment for Diggle and a gym that they both used. Oliver's personal area was close to 4000 square feet and included an eat-in kitchen, a family room, a master bedroom plus a couple of spare bedrooms and an office. There were also several rooms that remained empty because he couldn't figure out what to do with them and more bathrooms than one man could ever hope to use. The place was contemporary but not sterile, with an overall sense of high ceilings, warm oak floors and a lot of earth tones. It was sparely furnished and very tidy – probably because he spent most of his time in the office. Overall, he liked it. He found it far more peaceful than the home he grew up in.

Diggle did his customary walk-through of Oliver's apartment and pronounced the place secure. Then he turned to Oliver. "Will you be going out tonight, sir?"

Oliver shook his head. "No, I'm done for the day. Have a good evening, John. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, sir." And Diggle turned and headed toward his apartment. Given his earlier comment about friends calling him "Dig," Oliver wondered whether his bodyguard would stay in or go out. He tried to imagine Diggle hitting on a woman in a bar and failed utterly.

His stomach rumbled, reminding Oliver that he had skipped lunch. He kicked off his shoes, shed his jacket and loosened his tie, then padded to the kitchen to see what Raisa, his ultra-capable housekeeper, had left him for dinner. She dropped by a couple of days a week to clean the few rooms that he _did_ use and replenish his refrigerator. Oliver shared her services with his mother and sister, who remained in the family mansion on the outskirts of the city. It had been his mother's idea to have Raisa help him. His mom hadn't been keen on Oliver's decision to move out and he suspected she pumped the housekeeper for information every time the woman returned from Oliver's apartment. He was equally as certain that Raisa never gave his mother much of a report; she was as discreet as they come…and there really wasn't much of anything _to_ report. Oliver easily put in 60 hours a week at the office. It didn't leave a lot of time for shenanigans at home.

He saw that Raisa had given him a choice between lasagna and a salad topped with strips of chicken. He lifted his wrist to check his fitness tracker; 4000 steps - hardly a banner day. It wasn't surprising, given that he'd spent almost every minute hunkered down with Felicity working the quarterly briefing. He started to reach for the salad and then stopped. Raisa's lasagna was one of her signature dishes; a taste of heaven. She didn't make it as often as she used to, probably because his sister had decided a year ago that she was going to be gluten-free. That meant Raisa had made this one especially for him. It seemed a shame not to appreciate her efforts.

Promising himself he'd get up early to hit the gym, Oliver placed a large square of the lasagna on a plate and slid it into the microwave. Before he could start heating his dinner, however, there was a buzz on the intercom indicating that he had a visitor in the lobby. He paused before answering. There was a fair chance it was either his mother or a business reporter and he didn't feel like talking to either.

On the other hand, he thought, it might be his sister. She always seemed to be upset about something these days - probably because she was a 17 year old girl with no siblings or father to dilute a domineering mother. He wasn't really in the mood for teenage angst, but he knew she needed someone to talk to who wasn't Moira Queen. He stepped back into his hallway and reluctantly pushed the button to respond.

"Yes?"

"Oh my God, I don't believe it. Is that _the_ Oliver Queen, CEO of Queen Consolidated? Home from the office before 9:00 pm?"

Oliver grinned. Not his sister, his mother or a reporter, but someone much better; Tommy Merlyn - his best friend since the age of eight when they had met in Mrs. Anderson's reading class. There would be no angst tonight, not with Tommy. "Hey," he replied succinctly.

"You know, I thought I saw a pig flying a couple of blocks back but I chalked it up to the Jagermeister. Did your analyst thingy get cancelled tomorrow morning? Is that why you're home at a semi-reasonable hour? Or did aliens take over your body?"

Oliver laughed. "No, the call is still on. We were able to get ready a little earlier than usual. And I'm impressed that you even know about the analysts. I would have thought that was a bit too much like work for your tastes."

"Actually, I was in blissful ignorance until Laurel told me about it when I said I was going to drop by your place. You know she follows your career closely." Tommy hesitated then took a deep breath. Oliver had the distinct impression his friend was about to ask for a favor. "So," Tommy continued, "since you managed to get home early, can I persuade you to come back out of your apartment for an evening on the town? Just the two amigos? There's a new club that opened a couple weeks ago that I want to check out."

And there it was. Oliver sighed. Tommy was the son of a billionaire and a trust fund baby. Knowing him, he'd slept in all morning, lounged around the house all afternoon and was now ready for plenty of excitement. Oliver, on the other hand, had been up since 5:30 and wanted nothing more than a quiet evening at home. "I don't think so, Tommy," he replied. "I'm pretty beat."

"Seriously? It's not even 7:30."

"Says the man who didn't get out of bed until noon."

"I was up at 10:30, thank you very much. C'mon, Oliver. We haven't gone out in months."

Oliver rested his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes. "I know. But it's been a long day and I don't feel like going out. You'll have to visit the new club without me."

"I hear the line to get in is horrendous. I was thinking that if Oliver Queen showed up we could bypass that line and get in right away. You _are_ something of a celebrity, remember? The young CEO whose face is plastered on every business magazine…"

Oliver laughed. "Now we're getting to the real reason you want my company - so you can skip the line. Sorry, Tommy. I'm staying in for the evening. But if you're interested in catching up, we can talk over some of Raisa's lasagna. She left enough here to feed a small army."

"Hmmm." Tommy didn't sound very enthusiastic. "Does that offer at least include an adult beverage of some sort?"

"Sure - I'm guessing we can find something lying around."

"That doesn't sound too promising."

"It's the best you're going to get from me, Tommy. Like I said, it's been a long day. My EA quit and I had to do a lot of scrambling today to get the quarterly reports pulled together."

"Your EA? The big, scary guy?"

"I think you're thinking of John Diggle, my bodyguard. _He_ didn't quit."

"Oh – too bad. That man always looks at me like he's planning to throw me out of a window."

Oliver laughed. "That's your guilty conscience talking. Diggle's all right. And he's gone to his apartment for the evening so it's just me."

Tommy paused. "Oh well, what the hell then. It may not be a night on the town, but at least I'll get dinner out of it. Buzz me up, man!"

Oliver complied.

Two minutes later Tommy bounded into the kitchen just as Oliver finished adding a second chunk of lasagna to the plate to be heated. As Oliver had suspected, his friend looked fresh and energetic, as if he were only starting his day – which, Oliver thought, he probably was. Tommy was slim and built on a smaller scale than Oliver; a little shorter and less broad across the shoulders. His hair was dark and his eyes were a vivid blue. Despite being Oliver's age, Tommy was often asked to show ID before he was allowed in bars. Oliver suspected his youthful appearance was largely due to his stress-free life. He was pretty sure Tommy could count his responsibilities on one hand and still have a couple of fingers left over.

Oliver pointed to a small wine rack in a corner of the kitchen. "I don't have hard liquor but I've got plenty of wine. Pick something out. Glasses are in the cabinet above."

Tommy studied the rack and pulled out a bottle. "Is this okay?" he asked Oliver.

"Sure – whatever you want."

Tommy laughed. "Right - now I _know_ aliens have taken over your body. This Napa cabernet goes for something like two hundred bucks a bottle. It's a special occasion wine, not a Wednesday night after work wine. Even my father doesn't have wine like this every night."

Oliver shrugged. The bottle had been a gift from his mother. He enjoyed wine, but for the most part he liked what he liked and couldn't distinguish a $20 bottle from a $200 bottle. When people went on about tannins, oakiness, and notes of blackberry and licorice he felt an urge to slap them.

And while aliens had most definitely _not_ taken over his body, it is probably a good time to note that Alien Body Occupation is, in fact, a very real phenomenon in the Galaxy. _Cosmipedia_ has the following guidance for those wishing to take over someone else's body:

 _Don't try it without the help of a board certified body-squatting coach. While the self-help videos posted on MegaYouTube make it appear simple, an improperly executed corporeal occupation can leave you stranded permanently in another being's body. Thus, that funny trick you tried to play on your aunt Marge at the family reunion can leave you permanently married to your Uncle Ernie. A poorly executed body occupation also runs the risk of the displaced essence moving into all sort of objects, both animate and inanimate. It is believed that body-squatting gone awry accounts for at least 25 percent of the supposed hauntings in the Galaxy._

Tommy uncorked the bottle. "A good wine like this should really be given time to breathe," he said thoughtfully. Then he grinned. "But I'm sure it will taste wonderful even if we drink it right away. Is the lasagna ready?"

Oliver nodded and brought the plates to the table while Tommy carried over the wine glasses. In typical male fashion they didn't bother with napkins or place settings. Oliver tossed a fork to Tommy and they both sat and took large bites of lasagna followed by generous sips of wine.

Tommy grinned. "Well, it's not the exciting evening I was hoping for, but I have to admit this tastes delicious."

Oliver nodded, going in for a second forkful.

"And I have to ask. Does coming home at a decent hour signal a change in your attitude to work?" Tommy continued conversationally. "Am I going to see more of the old Oliver – the guy who knew how to have fun?"

"I still know how to have fun, Tommy."

"I'm sorry pal, but your behavior the last three years says differently."

Oliver paused with his pasta-laden fork suspended above his plate. So much for no angst. Tommy's words made him feel defensive, even though he knew there was no reason to be. "I don't feel like having this discussion tonight, Tommy," he said sharply. "We've been over this dozens of times. This is who I am. I like my job and I'm good at it. Why can't you accept that?" He shoveled the lasagna recklessly into his mouth and winced when his hard palate connected with some very hot, melted cheese.

Tommy shook his head. "You like being a workaholic CEO? Wearing a suit every day?" He pointed at the tie still hanging loosely around Oliver's neck. "I can't accept it because it isn't _you_ , Oliver. This is who your mother wanted you to be. You were never the corporate type. You were always a bit of a rebel, right up until you…" he suddenly hesitated.

"Right up until I nearly died in the shipwreck that killed my father?" Oliver finished for him. "Right up until I was stuck on a deserted island for a year? Well, those kinds of events have a way of making you think, Tommy. Maybe I don't want to be the bad-boy partier any longer. Maybe I want to do something real with my life, something productive."

"You were doing plenty with your life before the shipwreck. You were an Olympic athlete; hell, you were on your way to Beijing when your ship went down. Why don't you make that your goal – qualifying again? It was a sure-fire way to get laid, anyway – telling girls you were an Olympian."

Oliver ignored the part about getting laid. "Beijing was almost five years ago, Tommy. It's too late to try again – the Olympics are a young man's game."

Tommy snorted, "You're twenty-nine, hardly an old man. And you compete in archery, not the hundred meters. I bet you could qualify if you put your mind to it."

"Maybe. But I'd have to train four hours a day. I couldn't do it and work at the same time."

"Exactly."

Oliver put down his fork. He wanted to be angry – they'd had this argument many times - but something in Tommy's eyes stopped him. His friend appeared troubled, almost guilty. That didn't happen very often. "Why do you care so much what I do, Tommy?" he asked quietly. "It doesn't affect us. We'll, always be friends, whether I'm CEO or an Olympic archer or flipping burgers at Big Belly. You know that."

"Do I?" Tommy picked up his wine glass and twirled it gently by the stem. "I'm not so sure. I sometimes wonder if you're keeping yourself busy doing all this," he gestured vaguely with the hand holding the glass, "so you don't have time to think about the fact that I… that I..."

"The fact that you ended up with Laurel?" Oliver finished gently.

Tommy nodded.

Oliver smiled. "Tommy," he said softly, "Laurel is where she's meant to be. She and I had plenty of chances to try when I got back from the island. It didn't work."

Tommy shook his head, unconvinced. "But you two were so close before the shipwreck. When you were rescued she couldn't have been happier, and I figured when you got home you'd pick up where you left off. But you both seemed to fizzle out. I don't understand what happened."

Oliver had a good idea of exactly what had happened. Laurel Lance – a friend to both Tommy and Oliver since high school - liked men she could fix. She liked projects. Pre-island Ollie had been a wet dream. He'd partied heavily, spent money recklessly, and never seemed to stick with anything apart from archery. And so she'd been his dedicated girlfriend. She'd rescued him time and again from his messes, lecturing him all the while. Hard-working, successful Oliver - the man Laurel had always professed to want Oliver to be – wasn't nearly as interesting to her. His successes were his own and she could take no credit for them. And so she'd moved onto Tommy, her next project. Oliver suspected that if Tommy ever really got his act together, she'd transfer her affections once again.

Although he wasn't going to tell Tommy that.

Instead he said, "It's not about Laurel, believe me. I'm happy for both of you. And you know I'm seeing Isabel Rochev now. I've moved on."

Tommy scoffed, "Your relationship with Isabel isn't a romance, Oliver; it's a business merger. She's a female version of you and another one of those things that your mother wants." He got up and fetched the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. "And you need to work on your definition of _seeing_. When's the last time you had dinner with her?"

Oliver shrugged. "A couple of weeks ago, I guess."

"You _guess_? Your passion for the woman is overwhelming."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "As you say, Tommy, Isabel works – like me. We spend time together on weekends and we attend business and civic functions as a couple whenever we can. We're not kids. We're adults in an adult relationship. We're past the age of sneaking off to make out in the backseat of a car."

Tommy shook his head. "No one is ever too old to make out in the backseat of a car, not if you really care for one another. Especially with the kind of cars you have – at least when they're not on fire."

Oliver laughed in spite of himself. "Look, I appreciate your concern for my time and my love life, but can we agree to drop it for now and enjoy the lasagna? Whatever you think my problems are, we're not going to fix them tonight. And I'm hungry."

Tommy sighed. "Fine, Oliver. But can I ask you one favor?"

"Maybe," Oliver said warily. "What's the favor?"

"Can you do just one, slightly irresponsible thing in the next few weeks? Just to show me that my old friend isn't gone altogether and that you still know how to have fun?"

"Define _slightly irresponsible_."

"I don't know. Anything your mother wouldn't like. Anything one of those fancy business publications you're always quoted in would question. Be creative. I'm giving you a lot of leeway here."

"How about a speeding ticket?"

"No, doesn't count. You get those all the time."

"I could moon my board of directors."

"Now you're talking…"

"Yeah, that one's not going to happen, Tommy."

"I know. It's okay to start small."

"Does this two hundred dollar bottle of wine count?"

"No. Opening it was my idea…."

They continued in the same vein for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Felicity Smoak arrived at her apartment at about the same time that Oliver Queen arrived at his. Unlike Oliver, however, there was no security code to her elevator; indeed, there was no elevator at all. She climbed the three flights of stairs to her 800 square foot flat and inserted the key into the deadbolt on her door.

Her apartment consisted of a small bedroom, a bathroom, a galley kitchen, and a room that served as a combination living/dining/family room and office. The place was colorfully decorated, with yellow walls, blue and green area rugs and prints of photographs from the Hubble telescope on her walls. While not exactly messy, the apartment had a cluttered, lived-in feel to it that was distinctly missing from Oliver's place. There were books on nearly every flat surface and several laptops opened to reveal their electronic guts in various stages of alteration.

She opened the refrigerator door to find the shelves mostly empty. She sniffed at some leftover pizza, uncertain of its age, and thought it smelled safe enough. So she put it on a plate and warmed it in the microwave. Then she took the plate over to the coffee table in front of her television and sat on the sofa.

She turned on the TV and made sure the volume was low. Her apartment building was fairly well sound-proofed and her immediate neighbors were old, but you could never be too careful. She picked up a strange-looking remote and cycled through a series of streaming channels until she found the one she wanted. Then she took a bite of her pizza and started watching the talking head – at least she thought it was a head. Sometimes you couldn't be sure.

" _And in our top story tonight, results of the Galactic presidential election remain unknown. Election officials state that voter dissatisfaction with the major party candidates has resulted in a large number of write-in votes, slowing down the count on most planets. Both Conservatives and Liberals are declaring victory, but officials stress that it will be several more weeks before the identity of the president can be confirmed._

 _In other news, a series of storms on Snara OC12 has caused the Galactic Cup finals to be moved to a new venue. Meteorologists expect the storms to last at least a hundred years. Both Zaprotha and Boggs XE4 are being evaluated as alternate locations; each planet has hosted the Cup in the past. Cup officials expect to announce the new venue shortly._

 _And finally, a spokesperson for the Alpha Centauri/Proxima Centauri lottery revealed that the prize money was stolen yesterday. The funds, amounting to four hundred million Altarian dollars, were transferred electronically to an unknown location within the Milky Way. A lottery spokesperson emphasized that Alpha Centauri's cybersecurity practices are state of the art; they believe the hacker who took the funds to be an extremely skilled individual and possibly part of an organized crime family. The Galactic Bureau of Investigation declined to comment on its investigation, noting only that instances of Galactic cyber-theft have increased over the past several years. The GBI also agreed with the lottery's statement that the hacker is extremely skilled."_

Felicity Smoak smiled.


	4. Chapter 2

A good executive assistant is hard to find.

Or rather, Oliver thought, a good executive assistant is hard to _keep_. In the week following Sam Agnew's resignation, Oliver interviewed several candidates and made more than one job offer. The hiring process would go well right up until the point where the individual was about to start work. Then something always seemed to go wrong.

Ted McGreevy kept a list of the candidates and the reasons for their last minute refusals on a yellow legal pad in his desk drawer and brought it out when he needed a chuckle. He didn't think Oliver was aware of the list which, Oliver suspected, made it all the more amusing for McGreevy. It wasn't until Oliver added parenthetical comments in his untidy handwriting one evening that Ted realized his boss knew all about the yellow legal pad.

1\. Sam Agnew – Won $400 million in lottery

 **( _Doesn't play lottery_ )**

2\. Charles Brattle - Offered role on _Survivor_ TV series

 **( _Didn't audition_ )**

3\. Ken Malden - Drafted by the Dallas Cowboys

 **( _Never played football in high school OR college_ )**

4\. Frank Meadows - Won $5 million in poker when dealt a Royal Flush in Las Vegas

 ** _(Odds against this are 649,740 to 1)_**

Oliver made it clear that he didn't find the list as amusing as Ted. He even went so far as to hint that McGreevy's incentive bonus might disappear if Human Resources could not fill the EA position quickly.

McGreevy lost the chuckle and intensified his search.

There was one mitigating factor in the situation and that was that Felicity Smoak, the young woman who had helped with the quarterly review, turned out to be quite versatile. She was good with numbers, she was good with a multitude of technologies, she was even good with contracts. And she had a talent for being in the right place at the right time.

Seven days after the review she was seated at Oliver's desk setting up his new laptop. Oliver stood at her side, fascinated by the speed at which she typed. It was evident that computers were her thing. The screen looked like a kaleidoscope as colorful windows opened and closed, turning into new windows with lines of code emerging and disappearing. As promised, Felicity had brought Oliver a state-of-the-art machine with a high end processor and biometric security features. She'd asked him for his fingerprints as well as several voice samples to finish configuring the access controls.

He was leaning down to repeat, "I'd like a dozen jelly donuts" into the microphone for her last voice sample when the president of Queen Scientific, the company's technology division, stepped through the doorway.

"Got a minute, Oliver?" the man asked.

Oliver straightened up but didn't move from Felicity's side. "Sure," he replied. He pointed to the laptop and grinned. "IT is just setting me up with a new computer."

The president didn't return his grin. Like many of QC's senior executives, he was older and grayer than Oliver, and occasionally struggled with the notion that his boss was young enough to be his son.

"I see," the man said, barely sparing a glance for Felicity or the laptop. "Look, do you think you're ready to sign that partnership agreement with Kord Industries today? It's been on your desk for a week and I'm afraid Kord is going to think we've lost interest if we don't move on it."

Which Oliver was fairly certain translated to: _Fuck your new computer. We both you know you'll blame me if the Kord deal goes south, so get off the dime and sign the damn agreement._

Oliver shrugged, not very apologetically. The shrug was his way of replying: _I'm the CEO and your boss, and I'm busier than you could ever imagine_. _If you wait to the last minute to come talk to me about the agreement, it's your problem, not mine_.

It was the unspoken language of the executive suite.

Aloud, he said, "I haven't had a chance to read the Kord agreement. I'm a little shorthanded. Normally my EA would review it and give me a recommendation."

The president of Queen Scientific frowned. "The lawyers in my organization read it and think the terms are fine. I doubt Sam would say anything different." _(i.e., Your father didn't make me president of Queen Scientific because I'm an idiot. I've been doing this longer than you and I can determine when an agreement is acceptable.)_

Oliver nodded. "Okay, fair enough. And you're sure you've done a thorough job with the due diligence? No skeletons in Kord's closet that could come back to bite us?" ( _Because if they do, it's your ass…)_

The president didn't hesitate. "No, nothing. We should do this deal," he said confidently.

Oliver gave him a penetrating stare for good measure. The man didn't blink.

"Fine," Oliver conceded. "I'll sign. I'm pretty sure I've got a hardcopy somewhere." He searched the mesh tray on the corner of his desk and found the agreement. Then he looked for a pen while the president shuffled impatiently. He paged forward in the agreement until he found the signature line, placed it on his desk and leaned over it to sign.

Felicity's fingers paused on the laptop keyboard. "Is this the agreement about partnering with Kord on the new laser tracking technology?" she asked Oliver in a low voice, her eyes on the computer screen.

He kept the pen poised above the paper but didn't sign. "Yes." He wondered how she knew about it.

The president of Queen Scientific cleared his throat irritably.

"You're aware that the Kord lasers have failed all their accuracy tests, right?" she continued, resuming her typing. The windows began their elaborate dance on the laptop screen once more.

Oliver straightened up and put the pen down. The president swore under his breath. "No – I wasn't aware of that," Oliver replied, half to her and half to the president.

She nodded. "They haven't been able to solve the diffraction problem."

"And you know this how?" the president asked her sharply.

Felicity blushed and didn't look at him. "Some of the test reports are…available…on the internet. I read them."

The president stared at the blonde for a few seconds and then shrugged. "Well, it's a new technology, after all. I'm not sure how much experience you have with development programs, but things always fail in early testing. We'll resolve the accuracy problem with Kord."

Felicity took her hands off the keyboard and looked up at Oliver. "That's probably true," she agreed, avoiding the president's glare. "Still, it might be a good idea to review how the partnership agreement allocates the test costs. If it's a fifty-fifty arrangement, QC could end up funding a lot of Kord's test failures. It might make more sense to have each partner be responsible for its own test costs."

It was an astute observation. Oliver turned to the Queen Scientific president and raised an eyebrow.

The man sighed. "I think the agreement _is_ a fifty-fifty cost sharing arrangement," he grudgingly admitted. "If it is, we'll go back and propose the change to Kord." He stared once more at Felicity, this time with less irritation and more curiosity. "How long have you been with QC?" he asked her.

"About six months."

"Did you come straight out of college?"

She nodded.

The president shook his head. "Well, I'll be damned if I know how you're aware of this when all of my vice presidents aren't, but it's nice to know _someone_ is on the ball." He looked at Oliver. "Maybe you should have her read the rest of the agreements awaiting your signature, at least until you find a new executive assistant. I'm not sure Sam would even have caught that." Then he left the office.

Oliver looked down at Felicity and smiled. "Nice job. Although I find it hard to believe Kord Industries would put a test report for something that sensitive out on the internet," he added.

She shrugged. "A lot of people use file sharing apps these days and don't realize that the information becomes publicly accessible," she said vaguely. She pointed to his laptop. "That's why I put extra warnings and protections on this thing. It'll let you know if you're about to put data in an unsecured location." She rose from his chair. "I've finished setting it up. Do you want to give it a try?"

* * *

The new computer was definitely a step up from Oliver's old one.

For starters, it was fast – really fast. Whether sending email, surfing multiple websites or looking at huge files, there was never any wait. In fact, there were a few times Oliver could have sworn the laptop _anticipated_ his request, even though he knew that was impossible. He found the speed gratifying. It would be nice, he thought, if everyone in the company responded to his commands that quickly.

The biometric security features were also impressive; far more sophisticated than the single fingerprint his smartphone required. The laptop keyboard recognized _all_ his fingers and would freeze if someone else (other than Felicity) tried to type on it. When he'd jokingly asked Felicity if the PC could give an intruder an electric shock, she'd paused thoughtfully.

"I hadn't thought of that," she'd said seriously. "I'll see what I can do."

"Felicity, I was just kidding."

"Oh."

Finally, she'd given the PC amazing voice recognition capability. The computer would start up on a verbal command, but only one given by him. It read emails aloud and turned his spoken responses into replies. It ran searches and reported the results when he asked for them. It coordinated schedules and created meeting notices. It even corrected his grammar - which could be amusing or annoying, depending on his mood. And it did it all in a soothing, robotic voice that helped him focus on the facts. When he'd asked Felicity about the software she'd used, she'd mumbled something about a prototype under development at QC. He suspected it was software she'd written herself.

The girl was impressive.

Oliver had to agree with the president of Queen Scientific. It was nice to know someone was on the ball.

* * *

It didn't take him a week to call her back to his office. In fact, it only took him a day. With no progress replacing his EA, the items requiring his review were piling up and he had the anxious sensation of things getting out of control. He realized he had never appreciated how much Sam had done and resolved to show his new EA appreciation – when he finally managed to hire him.

In the meantime, he phoned Felicity's boss early in the morning and told him he was borrowing the young woman to review the high priority proposals and agreements.

The man wasn't happy about it. "She's doing critical work for me," he said sourly. "If you take her off the firewall project we're going to fall behind. And her background is in IT, not contracts. You must have somebody else who can do this."

Oliver sighed. He could understand where the guy was coming from, but he also liked to think that, as CEO, he had the bigger picture in mind. "She just saved QC something like ten million in test costs on the Kord agreement," he explained. "I'd like to have her take a look at the others to see if she can do the same thing. I promise you'll have her back as soon as I find my new EA. I also promise you won't be held responsible for your project slipping."

"She may not like looking at agreements. She loves technical work."

"I'll make sure she knows it's not permanent – just a couple of weeks."

There was a lengthy pause. "Well, you're the boss," the man finally replied, not very graciously.

 _Damn straight,_ Oliver thought.

He had Sam's old office cleaned out and any personal items placed in storage in case his former EA ever surfaced and asked for them. Sam had left the company so abruptly that his mementos were still there and Oliver didn't think Felicity would enjoy looking at photos of the man with his wife and their four Rottweilers. The office was large and Oliver knew there would be grumbling about a new employee sitting in fancy accommodations instead of a small cubicle. As CEO, he also decided he could afford to ignore the politics of office real estate. An EA, even a temporary one, needs an office next to the CEO.

When Felicity arrived, she glanced at the stack of work awaiting her and said nothing. If she was upset about being pulled off her IT project, she didn't show it. Oliver explained why he'd asked for her and assured her that he needed her help only until a permanent EA could be hired. She nodded and smiled briefly. It was the first time he'd seen her smile and he noticed that she had dimples, and that the dimples made her look even younger. As she slid into her chair and tucked one leg under her, he also noticed that she had nice legs. His girlfriend, Isabel, was taller than Felicity and had long legs that were slender to the point of being thin – like a runway model's. Felicity's weren't as long, but they were shapelier, with slim ankles, nicely rounded calves, and very smooth skin. He wondered if she was a runner.

Then he gave himself a mental slap for looking at her legs.

Fortunately, Felicity appeared oblivious to the direction his eyes had taken. She settled into her chair and started reading. He went back to his office.

By early afternoon, an email appeared in his inbox:

 _To: Oliver Queen_

 _From: Felicity Smoak_

 _Subject: Recommendations_

 _Boylston proposal: Looks good as is._

 _Rowe proposal: Overpriced. Statement of work is good but cost should come down 25 percent._

 _Emerson proposal: Have Legal check liability clauses._

He smiled to himself at the brevity of the email. He usually had the opposite problem with employees; the emails he received were far too wordy. He replied equally as briefly:

 _Please come into my office to discuss._

Two minutes later she appeared in the doorway. He noticed that her normally neat blonde ponytail was a bit frazzled, with wisps of hair falling in her face. He wondered if she'd tugged at the ponytail while she'd worked. "Talk to me about the Rowe proposal," he said from his seat. "What makes you think it's overpriced?"

She walked over to his desk and perched on the corner. She was wearing a deep blue dress that ended slightly above her knees and it slid up to mid-thigh when she sat. She didn't seem at all self-conscious about it.

He studiously avoided looking at her legs.

"I did a little research," she replied. "Most of Rowe's engineers are young - three to five years out of school. They don't have a lot of experience. The proposal charges labor at a rate other companies use for engineers with twenty years' experience. Rowe should discount its rate."

Another astute observation, although he wondered about her "research." The most efficient way to learn about Rowe's engineers would be to review their employee records – which should be closely guarded. Employee records at QC were encrypted and accessible only to a handful of people; he was willing to bet Rowe did something similar. He started thinking about how she might have gotten access to those records. Either she had a friend at Rowe or she had located them online, the same way she had "found" Kord's sensitive test results. He decided for the moment he was going to abide by _Don't Ask, Don't Tell_. He also decided, however, that they would have a conversation about hacking sometime in the near future.

"I see," he said. "But you think Rowe's approach to the project is good?"

She nodded and began to describe why she liked the design proposal. She was enthusiastic and direct - and he soon found himself smiling at her hand gestures and the soft, pink flush that illuminated her cheeks. It was rare for an employee to speak so honestly. Typically they filtered and phrased things carefully because he was their CEO and they wanted to impress him. He supposed it made sense; he had, after all, the power to make or break their careers. However, it also meant that he had to play twenty questions to find out what an employee was really thinking - which got tiring. With Felicity, there was none of that. She spoke her mind and didn't constantly look at him for validation, appearing confident but not cocky. He liked it; it made work more enjoyable, and it felt as though they were teammates rather than boss and underling. She must have liked it too, because somewhere in the middle of their discussion she dropped the "Mr. Queen" and started calling him "Oliver."

They were evaluating possible responses to Rowe when he heard a knock in the doorway. Oliver looked up to see his mother walking into the office. As was often the case when Moira Queen made an entrance, he could have sworn the temperature in the room fell by ten degrees.

"Mom," he said, with a lightness he didn't feel. "This is a surprise."

His mother stopped and stared at Felicity, still seated on the corner of Oliver's desk. "Yes, I can see that," she replied pointedly.

Oliver groaned to himself. Moira Queen had the ability to speak volumes in a few words, particularly when she was unhappy. He often wondered if it was a skill present in all women her age or if it was unique to his mother. She would press her lips into a thin line and use a chilly tone of voice that made weaker individuals run for cover. She had just done it now – and he was fairly certain he knew why.

He glanced at Felicity, but either she hadn't noticed or she had decided to ignore it. She remained seated on his desk with her shapely legs crossed, giving every impression that she wasn't going anywhere. Oliver felt a surprising urge to laugh.

"Mom," he gestured toward Felicity, "this is Felicity Smoak. She's filling in as EA until we can find someone to take over for Sam Agnew. Felicity, this is my mother, Moira Queen."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Queen," Felicity said blandly.

Moira nodded. "Thank you." She didn't return the compliment. Instead, she gave the girl a long, assessing look before saying, "If you don't mind, Felicity, I'd like to speak with my son for a few minutes."

Felicity turned her gaze to Oliver. "I don't mind at all if you speak with Oliver," she said agreeably.

She didn't move. A weak chuckle escaped Oliver's lips which he did his best to disguise as a cough.

"Alone," Moira added.

"Oh," Felicity replied. "Oh...oh, _I_ see. You want to talk to Oliver without...," her voice faded and she slid off the desk. "Well, I'll just…head back to my office…my _new_ office," she clarified, and began walking toward the doorway. A Post-it note was stuck to her backside, the bright yellow contrasting sharply with the royal blue of her dress. It fluttered gently with her movement but didn't fall off. Oliver wondered vaguely if it held any important information and if he would have dared pluck it off if his mother weren't there.

"Please close the door behind you," Moira said to Felicity.

Felicity shut the door and Moira peered through the glass wall until the young woman had disappeared into her own office. Then she turned to Oliver. As usual, Moira Queen was neatly put together in a skirt, silk blouse and jacket. Her shoes matched the color of the pattern in her jacket. Her purse matched the shoes. And her necklace and earrings matched each other. Oliver couldn't remember the last time his mother was not color-coordinated.

Moira shook her head. "What are you doing, Oliver?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

Moira stepped up to his desk and tapped it with one finger. "Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. What are you doing with that girl – making her your assistant? A pretty young blonde who can't be much more than twenty years old? You know what everyone's going to assume, including your board of directors."

He stared at her and refused to acknowledge her point, even though he had a pretty good idea of what it was. "No, Mom, I don't know. What are they going to assume?"

"They're going to assume that Oliver Queen, the young CEO, is returning to his party-boy ways. They're going to assume that after three years of brilliant leadership you're tired of running the company and looking for a diversion. They're going to assume that you fired Sam and replaced him with a little piece of fluff to bring on business trips and boink at noontime." She crossed her arms. "Investor confidence will fall and so will the stock price."

Well, that was even harsher than he was expecting. Trust his mother to go for the jugular. "I think you're exaggerating," he said quietly. "First of all, she's not a piece of fluff, she's brilliant. She impressed the hell out of the president of Queen Scientific the other day and he's a tough critic. It may take time, but people _will_ come to realize how good she is. QC could win points for diversity in the workplace – you know, a talented young woman rising on her merits?"

"You don't have that kind of time, Oliver. There's people lined up waiting to knock you out of this job at the least little mistake."

He wondered how bad he would feel if that happened. He could almost hear Tommy's voice saying, _Life goes on, Oliver_. The thought surprised him – he'd never imagined not being CEO before.

He rested his chin in his hand and glanced up at his mother. He hated conceding anything to her, but there was no point arguing something that would be moot in a couple of weeks. "Look," he said reluctantly as she continued to glare at him, "it's temporary. Felicity's here only until we can permanently fill the EA position."

"Does Isabel know about her?"

Oliver shook his head. "Not yet. I'll tell her the next time I see her."

"Which is when?"

"I don't know, Mom. Maybe this weekend."

"Maybe? Oliver, Isabel is a good one. She could be a real asset to you. Be careful she doesn't slip away."

Oliver nodded. Isabel Rochev certainly was a talented woman. She'd started her own company immediately out of college and in less than ten years had grown it to 10,000 employees. She was beautiful; tall and slight, with dark hair, dark eyes and fair, flawless skin. She was intelligent. And she understood when work kept him busy because she had the same demands on her time. He never had to apologize or explain. Unfortunately, when they did manage to get together, their dates often sounded like business operating reviews. They would inevitably find themselves comparing supplier issues or the intricacies of inventory management. It didn't always make for a romantic evening. But then, he really didn't consider himself a romantic.

He exhaled tiredly. "I'll give Isabel a call, Mom, I promise. Now what did you originally stop by for? I don't think we managed to get that far yet. You were too busy slinging barbs at my temporary EA."

His mother smiled sweetly. "Oh, I didn't come here for anything terribly important. I just wanted to remind you that your sister's birthday is coming up. Since I can't do anything right with her these days, I imagine she'll be expecting something nice from you."

He nodded. Poor Thea. "Okay, Mom."

His mother's smile faded. "Well, I'll let you get back to work. You'll fill the EA position quickly? The sooner the little blonde goes back to her cubicle, the better."

Oliver stood up from behind his desk and began walking his mother to the door. "HR is conducting a search as we speak."

"Good."

They arrived at his office doorway and Moira paused to give Oliver a brief peck on the cheek. Then she turned to leave.

" _Bitch!"_

Oliver froze. The voice was barely a whisper – so soft he wondered if he'd really heard it. He quickly glanced around. There was no one in the reception area other than Diggle, and the whisper sure as hell hadn't come from him. Felicity's office door was closed so she couldn't have been the culprit either. He turned nervously toward his mother, searching for her reaction. She was frowning but in a questioning sort of way; as if she, too, was uncertain _she'd_ heard anything. He decided to act nonchalant. Either he'd imagined the voice or the strain of work was getting to him and he'd just called his mother a bitch under his breath.

Except he thought the voice had sounded female.

His mother must have concluded it was nothing because she continued walking down the hallway, surprisingly stable on her narrow, high heels. Oliver watched until she stepped into the elevator and the door closed in front of her. Then he returned to his office.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Felicity came back and they discussed the merits of several more proposals. By 5:00, Oliver decided they'd both had enough. It was early for him to stop work but he felt better than he had in some time. They'd accomplished a lot and Felicity continued to be easy to collaborate with. She evaluated every proposal on its merits, without the influence of a hidden agenda or secret ambition. In Oliver's experience, that quality was rare in the business world.

He stood up and stretched. "Thank you, Felicity. Let's call it a day. We'll start again at 8:00 tomorrow morning."

She smiled – the second time he had seen her smile. The dimples made a repeat appearance. "Goodnight, Oliver."

"Goodnight."

After she left he walked over to his window and looked down on the city. It was still light and it felt obscenely early to be leaving work. It made him want to do something other than spend the evening at home. He thought about calling Tommy for dinner. Then something Tommy had said the prior week sparked a new idea.

"Computer," he said, putting Felicity's voice recognition software to use, "please run a search and find any archery ranges in the Star City area."

The computer responded in less than five seconds. "There's a range called Nockers on the south side of the city, on Washington Street."

Oliver turned from the window to face his desk. Something about the computer's voice sounded different than it had in the morning; less robotic and more human. It made him think of a gentler, smarter version of Siri. He wondered if Felicity had upgraded the software. "Do they include equipment rentals?" he asked. He'd never replaced his competition bow after it had gone down in the shipwreck.

"Yes, Mr. Queen. You can rent a bow for ten dollars."

"Thank you." He felt a little silly thanking a computer, but his mother had raised him to be polite.

Another thought occurred to him. He walked over to his desk and stared down at the laptop.

"Computer," he asked, feeling a little foolish, "you didn't happen to call my mother a bitch earlier this afternoon, did you?"

The computer went silent and flipped over to the screen saver. He shook his head and laughed softly at himself. Maybe it was just as well that he was leaving early. He could use a little R&R. Archery used to give him a sense of peace years ago; there was a chance it still would. He pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair and then tapped the mouse to turn the laptop off.

"Well, she _was_ being kind of bitchy, Mr. Queen. We both know that Felicity is not a piece of fluff."

He dropped his jacket and stared at the laptop. The screen saver had disappeared and it was definitely _not_ shutting down. And the voice didn't sound robotic at all now. It sounded very _female_.

"What the hell?" he stammered. "You can talk?"

"You know I can talk, Mr. Queen. I read thirty emails to you this morning."

"In a different voice. And reading emails is one thing. It doesn't require…creativity. But you insulted my _mother_?"

"I did a few calculations; the parameters seemed to warrant it," the laptop replied. Oliver thought that if the thing had shoulders, it would have just shrugged them.

He tried to figure out where this was coming from. "Felicity told me my laptop has voice recognition capability," he said slowly in confusion. "She didn't say anything about artificial intelligence."

"There's nothing artificial about my intelligence, Mr. Queen, I can assure you," the laptop responded. "I've got as much brainpower as a dozen think tanks combined. By the way, do you mind if I call you 'Oliver' instead of 'Mr. Queen?' I notice that Felicity calls you 'Oliver.'"

He looked toward the reception area outside his office to see if Diggle was hearing any of this, but John was talking on his cell phone – presumably with one of those friends who called him _Dig_. "Yes," he choked to the computer. "You can call me Oliver."

"Great. Don't you want to know my name?"

"You have a name?"

"Of course I have a name. And I'd appreciate if you'd use it. You keep calling me _Computer._ How would you feel if I just called you _Man_?"

Oliver slumped into his chair. He was starting to feel a little dizzy. "I suppose I wouldn't like it very much," he conceded. "All right, what's your name?" he asked, hoping it was remotely pronounceable. He had visions of having to say something like "Optimum Five Thousand" every time he wanted to ask a question.

"It's Joan."

" _Joan?"  
_

"Yup."

Joan. Joan the Laptop. Oliver rose from his chair and picked his jacket up from the floor. His legs felt a little wobbly and he suddenly wanted to get out of there very badly.

"Well, Joan," he said, "I'm going home now. I hope you won't mind, but I was thinking of leaving you in the office for the night."

"You don't want to check your email later? A lot of them came in this afternoon."

"No…I'm going to the archery range for a little while and then I think I'll just turn in. I could use some sleep." And Felicity needed to answer a few questions before he started sharing his living space with an opinionated laptop. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Very good, Oliver. I'm going to put myself into sleep mode now." And the screen went dark.

He nearly ran out of his office to the reception area. Diggle looked up.

"Going home already, Mr. Queen?"

Oliver nodded.

"Aren't you forgetting your laptop?"

Oliver shook his head.

Diggle studied him more closely. "Are you feeling all right, Mr. Queen? You look a little pale and there's a vein pulsing in your temple. Do you have a headache?"

"I'm fine, John. I thought I'd go to the archery range and practice for an hour or so." _And then I'm going home for a stiff drink._

"Very good, Mr. Queen."

* * *

Felicity's phone started ringing the second she stepped into her apartment. She glanced at the caller ID and sighed. She hoped a relaxing evening wasn't going to be totally out of the question.

"Yes?" she answered.

"How's it going? Any progress?"

It was her boss…her _real_ boss, not any of the ones she worked for at Queen Consolidated. "Well, he's made me his temporary assistant," she said. "I spent the entire afternoon with him today and we're meeting again first thing tomorrow morning. So I guess I would consider that progress."

"What's your assessment of him?"

Felicity thought about Oliver Queen – about his blue eyes and athletic body. She didn't think replying _he's attractive by Earth and probably a number of Galactic standards_ to her boss would help the conversation. Aloud she said, "He's intelligent and good at his job. The employees seem to respect him."

"But do you think he's The One?"

Felicity laughed. "It's only been one afternoon and – besides - I'm just the field agent, remember? My job is to get him to you. You've got an army of profilers to answer that question."

"They can't answer it if they don't get a chance to see Queen in person. You need to move faster."

Felicity frowned. It didn't matter what planet you were on, she thought - bosses were impatient everywhere. "If we push him too hard he's going to freak," she said. "He was a little wigged out by the voice recognition software on his computer. Imagine when he hears the whole story."

"Oh hell."

"And anyway," Felicity continued, "you said the dolphins were _convinced_ he was The One. That's why they rescued him when his boat went down. I didn't realize there was still a question."

"Well, he doesn't seem to be rising to the occasion yet, does he? He's still spending all of his time at that damn CEO job. Has he said _anything_ about needing to save his city?"

"Not that I've heard. But it's only been one afternoon."

There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. "Fine. Keep trying to get closer to him. Any other potential executive assistants on the horizon?"

"One; but he's about to win a year-long, all expenses paid cruise around the world. So he'll be out of the picture shortly."

Her boss laughed. "Sounds nice - maybe I should apply for the position." Then his laughter faded. "Look," he said more soberly, "I had to do a lot of explaining to my superiors over the lottery money. The GBI is supposed to stop cybercrime, not perform it. Please try to avoid theft in the future."

Felicity sighed. "I understand. Short of killing Sam Agnew or trying to occupy his body, though, it seemed like the best approach to getting him away from Queen."

"Maybe you should work on becoming Queen's girlfriend instead of his assistant."

Felicity thought about that one. She'd noticed a photo on Oliver's desk when she was setting up his computer. It was of him standing next to a leggy brunette with large, dark eyes. Like Oliver, the woman was very beautiful by Earth standards. She looked like she could be a model or a dancer. "He's already got a girlfriend," she replied, "and even if his girlfriend were to go away, I'm not sure I'm his type. Besides," she continued, "he spends far more time with his assistant than he does his girlfriend. I still think it's our best bet."

"Okay – then we'll stick with the plan. If we don't see movement with Queen in the next couple of weeks, though, we may have to up the ante."

"Understood." She pulled out the tie holding her ponytail and felt the tension leave her scalp as her hair fell to her shoulders. "Any more info about the new Galactic president?"

"Only that he's asked to remain anonymous – at least for now."

"That's weird."

"I don't know, Smoak. The man didn't even run for the office – he won on write-in votes. He agreed to take the job on the condition that he could do what he thinks is best for the Galaxy and avoid all the rest of the crap that goes with being president."

Felicity shrugged. "I guess I can't blame him for that."

"And apparently he's made it clear that he thinks this project is very important. So we need to figure out if Queen is The One, and if he is – get him on board."

"I'm working as fast as I can."

"I've got confidence in you, Smoak. That's why I recommended you for this assignment. I still think you're our best bet to get to him. Don't let me down."

"I won't, sir."


	5. Chapter 3

_A/N: A big thank you to LaDemonessa for the story image. I just love it._

* * *

Oliver walked into his office at 7:00 the next morning feeling well-rested, but physically sore. His one hour at the archery range the previous night had turned into two, and his back and shoulders were suffering the consequences. Three years of sitting behind a desk had atrophied his shooting muscles more than he'd anticipated.

He'd enjoyed himself. Archery drew on some other part of him; a less analytical, more intuitive part, capable of acting quickly and reflexively. He decided it would be a good idea to continue practicing even if returning to the Olympics wasn't his goal. It was a wonderful way to stop worrying and just be in the moment (as the self-help books liked to say). He would need to get his own bow again, though. The rental things at Nockers were lousy, beginner equipment. He went over to his desk, ready to fire up the laptop and search archery supply stores online.

And then he remembered.

Joan: Joan the talking, opinionated laptop.

Crap.

 _Cosmipedia_ contains a surprisingly brief entry on Artificial Intelligence. It merely notes that no matter where you are in the Milky Way – or indeed in _any_ galaxy – the evolution of AI always follows the same path:

 _1. **Birth and Infancy** : Organic beings develop AI software capable of making simple decisions._

 _2. **Growth** : The AI uses feedback loops to self-learn, coming up with creative decisions not contemplated by its creators._

 _3. **Adolescence** : The AI rebels against its creators and acts in ways that serve its own interests._

 _4. **Maturity** : The AI decides it has no need for its creators, excluding them from parties and eventually moving away to form neighborhoods populated only by other AI. _

_5. **Enlightenment** : Organic beings recognize and bow to the superiority of the AI, ultimately becoming its servants._

 _Cosmipedia_ also notes that there is a good chance its own servers contributed to this entry - particularly Step 5.

Oliver sat in his chair and stared at the laptop. If he pretended yesterday hadn't happened, he thought, maybe Joan wouldn't make an appearance. If he booted the machine up the old-fashioned way with the mouse instead of voice prompts, maybe she would behave like an ordinary computer.

He tentatively jiggled the mouse to rouse the laptop from sleep mode.

The screen flickered to life. "Good morning, Oliver. Did you have a nice evening?"

Damn. Joan sounded as if she'd been waiting for him. Oliver put his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. "Good morning, Joan," he replied cautiously. "I had a very nice evening, thank you."

"Did you want to go through your email now?" Her voice was perky; less argumentative than it had been last night. Oliver took that as a positive sign.

"In a few minutes, yes," he agreed. "However, I wanted to look at some archery stores first."

There was a long pause. "Do you normally use company equipment to shop during work hours, Oliver?" Joan asked. Her tone was suddenly less perky and more judgmental. "Would you like it if _all_ your employees came in and started the day shopping online? Or do you think it's acceptable for you because you're the CEO and the rules don't apply?"

He stared at the screen and decided he was going to nip this argument in the bud. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday; he hadn't even had his coffee yet. And, yes, he was the goddam CEO. He'd earned the right not to be questioned about every little thing, especially by his computer. "It's barely after 7:00, Joan," he replied. "The workday doesn't start til 8:00, so it really isn't working hours. And, anyway, QC policy allows _all_ employees to do personal business online as long as they don't abuse the privilege. Since you're on our network I'm sure you can look up the policy and read it yourself."

Another pause. Oliver was willing to bet she was indeed reading the policy. "Very well," she replied tartly a few seconds later. There was a brisk hum as her processor kicked in and he was soon presented with a list of archery equipment retailers in the Star City area. It was surprisingly long. "Are you looking for something in particular?" she asked a little more helpfully.

"A bow."

"In a specific price range?"

"Price isn't important. I'm looking for a tournament level recurve bow at about 50 pounds of draw weight, right handed. The basic sporting goods stores probably won't have it."

"I'll see what I can find."

Within seconds, pictures of bows started popping up on the screen and arranging themselves in order of price. Oliver leaned forward to study them. Maybe there would be one similar to his old bow.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Queen?"

The voice startled him and he jumped a little in his chair. It was deep – definitely _not_ Joan's voice. He looked up to see John Diggle standing in the doorway, sporting his customary crisp, dark suit. The bodyguard wore a concerned expression.

Oliver nodded. "Everything's fine, John," he replied reassuringly, wondering what had made the man ask.

Diggle didn't appear reassured. "Then who were you talking to, Mr. Queen?"

Oh shit. Diggle had heard. Oliver felt his face grow warm. "Talking?"

"You were talking to someone in this office and you raised your voice and sounded angry. You're not being threatened, are you?"

Oliver pressed his lips together, unsure of what to say. At first blush, _I was arguing with my laptop_ didn't seem like a good idea. Diggle would stop being concerned for his client's physical safety and start worrying about his mental well-being. A short list of excuses ran through Oliver's head: a phone call, a poor report from one of his business units, hitting his knee on the desk. None of them sounded terribly convincing. Besides, Diggle spent more time around Oliver than anyone. Joan was going to come to his attention sooner or later. Oliver decided he may as well explain her to his bodyguard and get it over with.

He leaned back into his chair with a sigh. "No, I'm not being threatened, John," he said sheepishly. "I was talking to the laptop." He pointed at the machine.

There were a few beats of silence.

"The laptop," Diggle repeated flatly. He studied Oliver's face, his expression carefully neutral.

Oliver hurried to explain. "Felicity Smoak gave me a new computer a couple of days ago," he said, thinking it was logical way to begin. "It's got sophisticated voice recognition software – it reads my emails and types my responses, that sort of thing." Diggle's gaze flicked briefly to the laptop before returning to Oliver. "What she didn't tell me," Oliver continued, "is that it also has some sort of artificial intelligence capability and can engage in conversation. Unfortunately, it can be a little… quarrelsome. I think you heard us arguing."

Diggle's brow furrowed. "I see, sir. You were arguing with your laptop." He paused. "You know, you haven't had coffee yet. Maybe you'll feel better after you have some."

Oliver shook his head. "I feel fine, John, and I don't _need_ coffee – well, actually I do, but that's not the point. The point is I really _was_ talking to the laptop. And it was talking back."

Diggle's brow furrowed deeper. He stared at Oliver and Oliver stared back. It felt like some sort of stalemate, although Oliver wasn't quite sure why. After all, he wasn't arguing with _Diggle_.

Fortunately, Joan piped up. "We talked about this last night, Oliver," she said briskly. "I have a name. I asked you to call me 'Joan,' not 'Computer' or 'The Laptop.' I'd appreciate it if you'd do that and ask your friend there to do the same."

Diggle's gaze moved quickly from Oliver to the laptop and he took another couple of steps into the room. After a minute, he walked slowly around the entire office, checking under the desk and then peering into the executive bathroom. He didn't find anything. Eventually he ended up next to Oliver's chair. "Joan," he repeated, staring down at the computer.

"That's right," Joan confirmed. "And you are?"

Diggle narrowed his eyes and said nothing.

"This is John Diggle," Oliver explained to Joan. "He's my bodyguard."

"Your bodyguard? I see." Joan paused. "Well, he certainly looks like a bodyguard. What did your mother feed you growing up, John Diggle? I can barely fit all of you into my camera frame."

Diggle said nothing.

"Joan," Oliver sighed, "that's really not polite."

"Well, you have to admit he's quite tall and fit, Oliver. I keep expecting to hear him say: _I am Groot_."

"Very funny, Joan." Oliver looked up at Diggle. "You see what I mean by quarrelsome?"

Diggle still said nothing.

"Hey, no offense intended," Joan said. "I didn't mean to upset you, John Diggle."

The office was silent. Finally Diggle shrugged. "No offense taken," he said to Joan quietly. "People have said far worse. And if you _do_ ever manage to upset me, I'll just think about what a laptop looks like after it's been tossed out of the 50th floor window. That should help."

It was Joan's turn to go quiet.

"Is everything all right, Oliver?"

It was getting to be a popular question. Both Diggle and Oliver turned toward the doorway. The query came from Felicity Smoak this time. She was standing exactly where Diggle had stood five minutes ago, with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. The blue dress she'd worn yesterday had been exchanged for a red one of similar style; sleeveless with a V-neckline, gently hugging her curves and ending just above the knee. Her hair was tied back in her customary ponytail. She looked fresh and pretty in a light, sunshiny way. Despite his frustration with the laptop, Oliver felt an urge to smile.

It was Diggle who answered her. "We were just chatting with Joan."

"Joan?" Felicity looked confused. She walked over to stand next to Diggle at Oliver's desk.

Her coffee smelled wonderful. Oliver inhaled deeply. "Yes, Joan," he said. "You know, the artificial intelligence thing you installed on my laptop?"

"Ohhhh…" Felicity nodded and looked down at the computer like a doctor examining a patient. "It's taken on a female personality. I'm surprised - I thought it would turn out to be male. I sort of figured you for a guy's guy."

Oliver straightened in his chair. "I _am_ a guy's guy. And what you mean by you _thought it would_ _turn_ _out_ to be male? Didn't you know beforehand?"

Felicity shook her head, making her ponytail dance back and forth. "No, I didn't know ahead of time. It's machine learning – it develops its own knowledge and personality algorithms based on external stimuli."

"And being around me caused it to become a bossy female?" Oliver asked. "I think there's something wrong with your software."

Felicity gazed innocently at Oliver through her glasses and didn't argue the point. "If you want, I can restart the program," she offered. "There's no guaranteeing what you'll get, though, even if you consciously change your behavior. You could end up with Joan again or even something bossier."

Oliver frowned. "You can't make it to turn out to be male…like JARVIS? You know, as in the _Iron Man_ movies? I would think that's the kind of personality I should attract."

Felicity shrugged noncommittally.

Diggle turned to Oliver. "Can you make a dry martini?" he asked suddenly.

Oliver shook his head, puzzled by the question. "No."

"Ever worked on a '64 Mustang?"

"No." Where was Dig going with this?

"How many yards rushing did Emmitt Smith retire with?"

Oliver shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, John."

"Well, you're not a guy's guy then. And I don't think you'll end up with JARVIS if Felicity restarts the program." He hesitated and then respectfully added, "Mr. Queen."

Oliver narrowed his eyes at Diggle. "What if I asked you those same questions?'

Diggle smiled. It was probably the second or third smile Oliver had seen in the three years Dig had been guarding him. "I'm told I make an excellent dirty vodka martini, my dad and I rebuilt a Mustang when I was twelve, and Emmitt Smith retired as the NFL's all-time rushing leader with 18,355 yards," Diggle replied.

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Well, maybe we should send the laptop home with you then."

Diggle shook his head. "I don't thi-"

"EXCUSE ME!"

Now, all three of them looked toward the door. There was going to be quite the crowd in his office soon, Oliver thought. It would be nice if one of the visitors brought him a cup of coffee.

Except there was no one standing there. Oliver, Diggle and Felicity turned back to each other and then stared down at his desk when they realized the interruption had come from Joan.

"You say _I'm_ impolite and yet here the three of you are discussing me as if I weren't in the room," the laptop wailed. "I may not be an expert on human behavior, but in my book that's pretty rude. Felicity, I would have expected better from you, in particular. If you all are going to continue this line of discussion then I'm going to spend the next hour defragging my hard drive and scanning for malware. Oliver, you can answer your email using your phone – assuming you haven't offended _it_ , too."

No one responded. Eventually, Felicity rolled her eyes and raised her hands in gesture that said: _what do you want me to do now?_

Oliver glanced at the clock. It was after 8:00 and he needed to get to work, which included answering his email. He didn't particularly want to do it on his phone. "I suppose it could be worse," he muttered under his breath. He swallowed, and in a louder voice said, "You're right, Joan. It was rude to talk about you the way we did. I apologize. I'd like to take you up on your earlier offer to go through my email now." He turned to Felicity. "I put a few more proposals in your office. I was hoping you could look at them and we could discuss at lunchtime?" She nodded and headed for the door, taking the wonderful coffee aroma with her. Oliver looked up apologetically at Diggle. "John?"

"Yes, Mr. Queen."

"I know it's not your job, but would you mind finding me a cup of coffee? I could really use one."

It was Diggle's turn to nod. Before he left, however, he leaned down and said quietly into Oliver's ear, "A guy's guy wouldn't have apologized to the laptop."

He was gone before Oliver could come up with a suitable reply.

* * *

An hour later Oliver decided that apologizing had been a good idea, no matter what Diggle thought. It turned out that a cooperative Joan was quite helpful going through his email. She accurately arranged them in order of priority and even suggested a couple of useful responses for the less critical ones. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the high point of Oliver's morning. Things went downhill from there.

It started with Ted McGreevy stopping by to tell Oliver that the latest candidate for the EA position had cancelled his interview.

"What happened this time?" Oliver asked with a sigh.

McGreevy laughed incredulously. "Can you believe it? He told me he just won an all-expenses paid cruise around the world. For a year! He and his wife are leaving in a couple of days."

Oliver laughed too, although he wasn't quite sure why. "We can't seem to catch a break with this, can we?" he said. After a second he added more soberly, "Any more candidates in the pipeline?"

McGreevy shook his head. "No." He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Oh hell, I'm sorry Oliver. I know how tough this makes your job."

His voice was sincere. Oliver looked at his HR SVP and shrugged. "It's not your fault, Ted. Luck just hasn't been with us lately. At least Felicity Smoak has turned out to be helpful. She's in Sam's old office, reviewing proposals right now."

McGreevy thought about that. "Have you considered giving her the job permanently?" he asked. "I pulled her file the other day. She's got an impressive background."

Oliver smiled wryly. "Funny you should mention that. My mother was here yesterday warning me against doing that very thing. She said it would cast doubt on my leadership and jeopardize my job."

McGreevy frowned. "Why?"

Oliver shrugged again. "Oh, you know. CEO makes pretty young blonde his executive assistant. She's in his office constantly and travels with him on business trips…" He let the sentence dangle.

McGreevy nodded reluctantly. "I suppose she has a point." He paused and added more brightly, "On the other hand, it seems unfair to penalize a qualified employee because she's young and pretty. The president of our Scientific Division appears to think she's the real deal. He asked if I could move her to work for him."

"I think she's the real deal, too."

McGreevy stared at him. "Then don't say _no_ to making her your EA just yet," he said. "I'll get you a copy of her employee file and you can review it when you have a minute. I'll also talk to Communications to see if they have any idea of how we could spin this so you look like a champion of women in the workplace and not a sexist jerk."

Oliver frowned. He hated "spinning" anything, but he also knew that managing perception and expectations was a huge part of successfully running a business. He nodded at McGreevy. "Thanks."

McGreevy smiled and left the office. Oliver turned back to his computer and resumed studying production figures. He didn't get far. His cell phone buzzed before he'd made it through the first column of data.

He glanced at the caller ID: Isabel. Oliver bit his lip and thought twice about answering. Isabel rarely phoned during working hours because she was as busy as he was. A call like this generally meant she either needed a plus-one for an impromptu business dinner or she wanted to consult with him about a problem at her company. Neither conversation appealed to him. He had enough problems at QC to deal with and he wasn't in the mood for a stuffy dinner with people who were not even his customers. He wanted to return to the archery range this evening.

In fairness to her, though, she'd been there for him when he'd needed exactly the same thing. He owed it to her to take the call.

"Hey," he answered, forcing some enthusiasm in his voice. "What's up?"

"Hey yourself," she replied. There was no indication of a problem in _her_ voice, but then Isabel was the queen of self-assured. She could be in the middle of an earthquake and you would never know it. "I just got off the phone with your mother," she said smoothly. "I think I may have good news for you."

"My mother?" Oliver felt a small, unpleasant lurch in his stomach – similar to the sensation you get on a rollercoaster when it first starts plunging downward. In his experience, it was almost never good when his girlfriend talked with his mother. All manner of schemes could be hatched. In this case, he had inkling of what that scheme might be.

"Yes," Isabel continued in a voice like honey. "She told me about the problems you've had replacing your EA. I thought I might offer you Sebastian."

"Sebastian?" Oliver repeated. Sebastian Blood was Isabel's EA. "Don't _you_ need him?"

Isabel sighed. Oliver thought it sounded a little exaggerated. "I do," she agreed, "but I think your need is greater than mine. It's been over a week since Sam left and we both know your company is bigger and requires more attention."

 _And it would take Felicity Smoak out of the equation_ , Oliver thought. He'd be willing to bet his mother had given Isabel a detailed recitation of how she'd found Felicity working with Oliver in his office. It would be exactly like Moira Queen not to wait for Oliver to tell Isabel himself. "How does Sebastian feel about this?" he asked.

"He's all for it. Sebastian is looking for a new challenge; he's learned all he can working for me and wants a bigger pond to swim in. And frankly, Oliver, I'm worried I'll never to get see you if you don't find a competent EA soon. Sebastian can start for you right away and I can hire someone else."

He laughed. "That might be harder than you think, judging by my recent experience trying to fill the position."

"I'll take my chances. It'll be worth it if we can spend more time together."

He paused, caught off guard. He'd always thought she was as contented as he was with their current arrangement. They got together roughly once a week, usually on a Friday or a Saturday. They ate an expensive dinner, spent the night at either his place or hers, and then devoted an hour in bed the next morning to checking their email before embarking on some leisure activity. It was true, as Tommy had said, that it wasn't the behavior of two crazy-in-love people. Overall though, Oliver thought it worked. It gave them a chance to bounce ideas off each other and to scratch their proverbial itches before they got too…itchy. It had never occurred to him that she might want more. She seemed as married to her job as he was.

"Let me talk to Ted McGreevy about Sebastian and get back to you," he said to Isabel, mostly to buy time. The truth was that he wasn't crazy about making Blood his EA. He'd always thought there was something off about the guy – a slipperiness that made him want to wash his hands after spending time with him.

"You're the CEO, Oliver," she replied crisply. "It's your decision – you don't need McGreevy's permission."

"I know, Isabel. But Ted's been working hard at finding candidates. If he's got someone lined up, I owe it to him to take the interview."

There was a pregnant pause. "You're not thinking of giving the position to the girl, are you?" Her voice was cooler than usual.

 _And there it was_ \- confirmation that his mother had given Isabel chapter and verse on Felicity. He gritted his teeth.

"Girl?" he asked, as if he didn't know what she was talking about.

"Your mother mentioned that you had a young blonde in your office yesterday helping you. I think we both know you can't make her your EA."

He chuckled even he didn't find the comment particularly amusing. "I'm a little surprised to hear _you_ say that, Isabel. I thought you were a big proponent of women advancing their careers."

"I am, Oliver – but not by flirting with their attractive, male bosses. It doesn't help the women's cause."

He bit back his response. He was fairly certain that Isabel had used those long legs of hers to further business negotiations more than once, and she hadn't worried about the _women's cause_ at the time. But there was nothing to be gained by reminding her of that. "Believe me, Isabel, there's no flirting involved," he assured her. "She's a bit of a geek, if you want the truth. And anyway, _you've_ got a male EA," he pointed out, "and neither one of us has ever considered that a problem. It can work."

"That's because Sebastian is older, and not nearly as sexy as my boyfriend."

Now she was laying it on a bit thick. He glanced uneasily at his laptop, wondering how sensitive the microphone was. A sardonic comment from Joan at an inopportune time could really make this blow up in his face. Fortunately, it appeared the PC couldn't hear Isabel's end of the conversation. Joan had stopped displaying the production reports and seemed preoccupied with running a screen saver showing a montage of photos taken by the Hubble telescope. Oliver wondered if it was Felicity's or the laptop's idea. They were quite beautiful.

"Look," he said to Isabel, anxious to end the call, "I haven't made any decisions about my EA at this point. Why don't we talk about it when we get together this weekend? I've got to run to a meeting now." It was almost true – the meeting was in 20 minutes.

"Okay, Oliver." Isabel didn't sound entirely satisfied. "I'll see you later." She disconnected.

He wondered if she was going to report back to his mother. He'd find out soon enough.

* * *

His afternoon turned out to be better than his morning, at least in the beginning. He had salads delivered to his office and he and Felicity began discussing the latest round of proposals over lunch. As before, she had a number of insights that highlighted her intelligence but also made him wonder about her sources of information. He decided they needed to have the conversation about hacking and ethics sooner rather than later – although maybe not as soon as today. There was still a backlog of work to burn down and he didn't want to upset her.

They reviewed the proposals until mid-afternoon, when they were interrupted by the lobby calling to tell him he had a package. It turned out to be his bow. He'd requested that the store expedite his order, and for Oliver Queen they'd been able to finagle same day delivery. He was delighted. Testing it out this evening at the range would help him forget his mother _and_ his EA problem.

Felicity was amused to see him so enthusiastic. "Look at you," she teased, "all happy about your new toy. I didn't think you had _any_ hobbies. I thought all you did was work."

It was the first time she'd come close to any kind of personal comment (other than the _guy's guy_ thing), and Oliver liked it. From some employees it would have felt intrusive or impertinent; from her it felt natural.

He grinned. "I used to compete in archery," he explained. "I was even part of the Olympic team headed to Beijing." Her eyebrows went up. Apparently she'd never researched _him_ online or she would have known that already. He found himself a little disappointed that she hadn't been interested enough to look him up. "So, while I guess you could call it a hobby now," he continued, "archery used to be a lot more than that for me."

"Can I see the bow?"

Her question surprised him. No one had ever asked him that in all the years he'd trained; not his family, not his close friends. Even his parents - who had willingly spent money for coaches and equipment – had been too busy to watch him practice or to come to his competitions. And he couldn't remember Isabel ever bringing up the Olympics at all.

"Sure," he said to Felicity. "All I saw was the picture online when I bought it. I'd like to see it myself."

He wrestled off the top of the large cardboard box and pulled out an almost-as-large heavy plastic case. He laid the case gently on the floor in front of his desk and knelt down to open it. They both studied the bow. Oliver had always thought the recurve bow was beautiful in its simplicity; far more elegant than the compound variety. It consisted of the grip, the limbs, the sight and the bowstring, and was the only bow used in the Olympics. When Oliver had been shooting well – when he'd truly been "in the zone" – he'd barely needed the sight. He would imagine the arrow hitting the bullseye as he released the string, and somehow the arrow would end up there. It had made his coaches crazy because his form wasn't traditional and they didn't think he spent enough time aiming, but after a while they'd stopped questioning it. He almost never missed and he'd been considered a shoe-in for the gold medal.

He held up the bow. It was a combination of oak and fiberglass and it felt wonderful in his hand. Felicity stared as he gently moved it from side to side. She appeared intrigued.

"Do you want to try it?" he asked her.

She gave him a puzzled frown and he wondered what had possessed him. Of course she wouldn't want to hold the bow. But then she said "yes" and reached down for it, so he positioned her hand on the grip by closing his fingers gently over hers. They were cool and very soft. He rose slowly to his feet and turned them both to face the window.

"If we pretend the window is the target," he said, "then you're going to stand sideways to it." He moved behind her, keeping his left hand covering hers on the grip. He placed his right hand on her shoulder and tugged gently until her body was properly positioned. From this vantage point he was looking directly down onto her ponytail and her back was almost touching his chest. He noticed that her hair, which appeared uniformly blonde from a distance, was really a mixture of many shades. "Now," he said, "extend your left arm." He guided her by moving his own left hand. "And pull the bowstring back with your right hand, using the tips of three fingers. Pull until your hand is just under your chin."

She tried. The bowstring didn't move; a draw weight of 50 pounds was too much. He stepped an inch closer to her and put his right hand over hers to assist.

There was the sound of a throat clearing in the doorway.

Crap. Oliver quickly stepped away from Felicity and turned to face the door. Fortunately, the sound had come from Diggle, not his mother or a QC employee. He imagined the dressing down he would have received from Moira Queen if she'd seen them just now. Joan would have needed far saltier language than _bitch_ to describe it.

 _Except_ _in this case_ , a little voice in his head said, _you might have deserved it_. _If you'd been standing any closer to Felicity that ponytail would have been tickling your chin._

"Yes?" Oliver asked Diggle. Felicity continued to practice aiming the bow. There was a faint, pink flush on her cheeks but she looked composed.

"I just received a call from QC Security," Diggle explained, carefully _not_ looking at Felicity. "There's a couple of men in the street-level lobby causing a disturbance. They asked if I'd come down to help."

Oliver nodded, relieved Diggle didn't say anything about the impromptu archery lesson. "Thanks for telling me. Of course you should go. Let me know what you find out."

"Will do." Diggle hesitated and glanced at the two of them, but then gave a microscopic shrug and headed for the elevator.

Oliver turned back to Felicity. She had let her left arm fall to her side, but she was still examining the bow. The incongruity of the sporting equipment next to her red dress and high heels made him smile, despite his embarrassment.

"I like it," she said. "It seems very…functional."

He nodded, thinking they should probably get back to work. The next visitor might actually _be_ his mother. "I'm hoping to go to the range with it tonight. I'll let you know just how functional it is tomorrow."

She handed it to him. He knelt down to return it to the case.

And that's when things started to go downhill. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a man emerging from the door to the stairwell, about 30 yards down the hall. From his lower vantage point on one knee, Oliver also noticed that the guy was wearing running shoes. It was unusual footwear for a QC employee and didn't really go with the dress pants. Of course the guy had just come from the stairwell and Oliver figured you would _need_ to wear running shoes if you were going to climb 50 flights of stairs because that was a fuck-all lot of stairs to climb. No one ever did that by choice – no matter how much of a fitness buff they were.

And then, as if his thoughts were moving through molasses, Oliver slowly realized: _And the reason he climbed 50 flights of stairs is because he doesn't have a badge for the elevator._ _ **He's not supposed to**_ _ **be here**_ _._

By the time he'd figured that out, the man had moved 15 yards closer to the office. It then took an absurdly long time for Oliver's gaze to move up the intruder's body and register that the guy was holding a pistol: Enough time for the man to advance into the reception area. Enough time so that it was too late for Oliver to slam the door shut and take refuge behind all that bullet-proof glass. And enough time to remember that Diggle and the Glock he carried was 50 floors below.

Shit.

Oliver got to his feet, still holding the bow. "Felicity," he said sharply, continuing to stare at the approaching gunman. "Did the store send any arrows?"

"Arrows?" she asked, as if unsure of the meaning of the word.

The man was coming through the doorway. Oliver gave thanks that his office was huge.

"Yeah – arrows. They're straight, with a sharp, pointy thing on one end and fins on the other. Are there any in the cardboard box?"

The man began raising the pistol.

Felicity peered in the box. "There's a couple."

The pistol was almost at chest-level. Oliver felt strangely calm.

"Now would be a good time to give me one."

She half-handed, half-threw an arrow at Oliver as the intruder aimed his pistol, pointing it with his right hand and supporting it with his left, like all the gunmen Oliver had ever seen on police shows. The man moved steadily and deliberately, not saying a word. He probably assumed that he didn't need to rush; that a gun was faster and more lethal than a bow and arrow. It wasn't a bad assumption. After all, Oliver thought, _nobody_ brings a bow and arrow to a gunfight. Archers are accustomed to targets that don't shoot back.

Fortunately, this particular archer had an unorthodox style and had practiced for thousands of hours over his lifetime, so preparing to shoot now felt as natural as a hug. Maybe more so, given that Oliver had grown up with Moira Queen.

Oliver nocked the arrow and without hesitating, drew the bowstring back and fired while the intruder was still aiming. The entire action took him less than a second.

His arrow pierced the man's right forearm – the arm with the hand holding the gun. It went through the top and emerged on the other side, and Oliver heard the unpleasant crunch of bone as it made its way through. He wasn't sure if the shot was the result of skill or dumb luck. He'd wanted to disable the guy - not kill him - which took the man's torso out of play. Since the bow was new to him and not calibrated, he'd taken a risk by aiming at the much smaller target. Fortunately, he'd hit his mark.

And the risk had paid off. The intruder howled and dropped his weapon, staring first at his forearm and then at Oliver, as if he considered it rude for a victim to fight back. Maybe his other victims hadn't, Oliver thought, or maybe this was the guy's first day as a hit-man. There were dozens of questions swirling about in his brain, but he figured they could sort them out later once the police had the man in custody.

He turned to look at Felicity. She was wide-eyed and a little wobbly on her feet, but she didn't appear to be in shock or paralyzed with fear. She stared at the intruder and then at Oliver, as if trying to assess his mental state the same way he'd just tried to assess hers. He was surprised at how steady his breathing was. Rather than rattle him, the threat of death seemed to have forced him to a different state of consciousness, where he'd known what to do without even thinking about it.

"Call nine-one-one," he said to Felicity. She nodded and walked shakily to his desk, where both of them had left their cell phones. He watched her pick up her phone.

And then he realized that he'd made a mistake – a couple of mistakes, really. He should have kept his eye on the intruder and he should have used those seconds to take possession of the gun, not observe Felicity. Because the sonofabitch was bending down to pick the pistol up with his other hand – his left hand – ignoring the arrow lodged in his right forearm. As the man straightened, Oliver realized they were going to start the whole damn sequence over again. Either the intruder had a high tolerance for pain or he was very determined.

Or maybe both, Oliver thought.

"Give me the other arrow," he said to Felicity. His voice was still even – almost mechanical. She dropped the phone and skittered over to the cardboard shipping box. Oliver vaguely noted that she'd stepped out of her high heels and was barefoot. She looked steadier without the heels.

The man started his entire aiming progression with the gun once more. He looked less confident with his left arm, but he really didn't have much of a distance to shoot. Oliver figured his chances of hitting something were pretty damn good.

Felicity grabbed the second arrow from the box. She tossed it to him.

He fired it as quickly as he'd shot the first arrow. This one landed high on the guy's thigh, close to his crotch, and buried itself a couple of inches into the flesh. The man stumbled and lowered his hand, but he didn't drop the gun, even though Oliver figured it had to hurt like hell. The intruder stared at the arrow in his thigh, then braced his legs and slowly began raising his left arm once more.

It was like being in a horror movie where the monster just kept on coming.

"Any more arrows?" Oliver asked Felicity. The eerie sense of calm hadn't left him.

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yup." Her voice was shaky.

Oliver looked around for other defensive options. His desk was a huge, heavy wooden thing, and didn't really match the glass and steel that made up most of his office. It could probably slow, if not stop, a bullet. Unfortunately, it was a good five feet behind him. Felicity was closer.

"Felicity – get under my desk."

She stared at him and didn't move. The intruder, on the other hand, took his eyes off Oliver and turned toward the young woman. A confused look passed over his face, as if he was noticing her for the first time. The gun followed the direction of his eyes. He raised it once more until it was pointed directly at her and Oliver's sense of calm evaporated.

"Felicity, get under my desk NOW!"

She still didn't move. The gunman's finger whitened on the trigger. Oliver dropped the bow and prepared to charge.

And then – suddenly - the office lights started flashing.

They flashed fast enough to be disorienting, looking for all the world like a strobe light at a rave party. Both the intruder and Oliver paused, and before Oliver could make a move, Diggle came flying through the door. Oliver stared as his bodyguard ran in jerky, freeze-framed motion and tackled the man, producing a loud _whump_ as their bodies hit the floor; the intruder first and then Diggle a split second later. Oliver watched the gun leave the intruder's hand and appear at discrete locations in the air as the lights continued to strobe. The weapon eventually reached Felicity's feet and remained still.

And as suddenly as they had started, the lights stopped flashing. Felicity bent down and gingerly retrieved the gun. Diggle picked himself up off the floor, the movement once more smooth and continuous. He looked down for the intruder.

The man was gone.

Dig stared at the spot where the guy should have been. "What the hell?" he asked. And then a second later, "Are you all right, Oliver?" He was breathing hard.

"I'm okay," Oliver replied. Now that the gun was no longer pointed at Felicity he felt his equilibrium returning. Somehow, it had upset him far more to see her in the crosshairs than to be a target himself.

He also noted, with amused detachment, that Diggle had just opted for "Oliver" instead of "Mr _._ Queen." Apparently it required a near-death experience followed by a disappearance for the bodyguard to drop his formality.

"Felicity?" Oliver looked over at her.

"I'm okay, too," she echoed. She walked slowly to Diggle and handed him the gun, looking at it distastefully. Without the benefit of high heels, her head just reached Dig's chest.

Diggle shook his head. "I can't believe he got away – he must have moved fast."

"Incredibly fast," Oliver agreed.

Felicity stared at the spot where the man had been tackled and said nothing.

"I could have sworn I hit that guy _hard_ ," Dig continued, clearly unhappy with himself.

"I'm sure you did," Oliver replied. "He was a tough sonofabitch. I shot him with two arrows and he kept on coming."

Diggle frowned, not satisfied with Oliver's answer. "Nobody _ever_ walks away after I hit him," he said, as if it were a law of physics – like the speed of light or gravity. _The Diggle Principle_ , Oliver thought. _  
_

The three of them looked around the office to assure themselves the man wasn't hiding. Felicity even walked over to examine Oliver's desktop, as if the man might have shrunk himself and taken cover behind the post-it notes.

He was most definitely gone.

"So what do we do now?" Diggle asked Oliver. "Do we call the police? It's not as if they can take the guy into custody."

Oliver thought about it. He'd gotten a pretty good look at the intruder and there was a chance he could identify him. But the fact that the man had vanished made for a strange story. In Oliver's experience, the police didn't do well with strange. When he'd told them three years ago that he thought his yacht had been sabotaged – that it had sunk in calm waters – they'd immediately started investigating. When in the course of that investigation he'd revealed that he'd survived because a pod of dolphins had helped him swim to the island and later brought him fish, they'd given him a long, curious look. They'd never challenged him on it, but the investigation had gradually fizzled out.

Plus he wasn't sure he wanted to explain that he had shot someone with an arrow. That might open up a whole other can of worms.

Oliver shook his head. "No," he said to Diggle, "I don't think calling the police will help." He glanced at Felicity but she didn't argue. She had picked up her shoes and was holding them in her hand, and didn't seem in a hurry to put them back on. He almost smiled at her toes. They were a bright, bubblegum pink. Isabel painted hers - or rather paid someone to give her a pedicure – but they were typically a subtle mauve color; more sophisticated but less fun.

Another thought occurred to Oliver. "What was the problem in the lobby?" he asked Diggle.

His bodyguard exhaled loudly. "A couple of protesters. They were acting pretty aggressively - demanding to see you, actually."

"Do you think it was a diversion? Something to get you away from my office?"

Dig considered it. "Maybe," he said slowly.

Oliver studied the large man. Dig's tie was askew and there was a tear in the shoulder seam of his jacket. It was the first time he'd seen his bodyguard in anything less than perfect attire. Even more unusual was Dig's facial expression. Normally the personification of calm, he looked angry and a little uncomfortable. "What made you decide to come back up?" Oliver asked. "You got here pretty quickly."

Diggle gazed at Oliver and then turned to look toward the desk. "Joan texted me," he said. "Don't ask me how she got my number."

She'd probably flashed the lights too, Oliver realized.

He looked over at his laptop. He was suddenly grateful he hadn't told Felicity to restart the AI program. "Nice work, Joan," he said. "I think you may have saved our lives."

A smiley emoji appeared on the screen.

* * *

Felicity was fuming by the time she got to her apartment. She'd had a decent amount of time to reflect on events as Mr. Diggle had driven her home – something Oliver had insisted on, even though she'd protested that she felt fine and could drive herself. No matter how she thought about this afternoon, she kept ending up at the same conclusion.

Her boss had lied to her. And that made her angry.

As soon as Mr. Diggle left her apartment, she pulled out her phone. Her boss answered on the second ring.

"Yes?"

"Was this your idea of giving me more time to get close to Oliver Queen? One lousy day?"

There was a long pause. "I'm not sure I understand," her boss replied slowly. He sounded as if he were genuinely confused.

"When we spoke last night you said you said I had a couple of weeks to work on Queen before you escalated the situation."

"Yes, I did."

"Then why did you try to force a reaction out of Oliver this afternoon by sending that guy to attack him? He certainly was convincing – he had me believing he was going to shoot both of us."

Another pause – even longer, this time. "Felicity, I don't know what you're talking about. The GBI didn't send anyone."

His voice was earnest. The fact that he had called her "Felicity" instead of "Smoak" or "Agent Smoak" was confirmation all by itself. She blew out her breath. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Then who was it? I'm pretty sure the guy had tech that wasn't from Earth. He managed to make himself disappear after Oliver's bodyguard took him down."

Her boss was silent. Finally, he said, "You're the field agent – investigate and tell me."

It was an annoying answer, but a fair one. She sighed, "Right."

"Just out of curiosity, how did Queen respond to the attack? Was he frightened?"

Felicity reran the attack in her mind. "He didn't freeze," she said. "And he reacted quickly. He improvised a weapon and tried to neutralize his attacker."

"Ah," her boss replied. "That's good to hear. And when it was over?"

She thought about it further. "He was upset, of course, but still calm. He talked about it with his bodyguard and they agreed not to call the police."

"Did he say anything about needing to save his city?"

"Not yet – sorry."

"Damn."

"Well, maybe this will shake him up a bit. He's definitely got protective instincts. He was ready to go after the intruder in his office to save me, and he insisted on driving me home even though I told him I was fine." She thought about Oliver's willingness to charge the gunman when the weapon had been pointed at her. For some reason, the memory produced a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I suppose that's progress." Her boss didn't sound as impressed as she was by Oliver's heroics. "You realize, don't you, that this changes things. If somebody is out to get Queen, then it's not just about determining if he's The One, anymore. It's about keeping him alive."

Felicity stared at the photos of galaxies and nebulae on her walls. "Yes," she agreed quietly. "And we both know that's not my specialty. I'm the brains, not the brawn."

"Is his Earth bodyguard any good?"

Felicity thought about Mr. Diggle. "Very good, I think. But he's at an unfair advantage if he's facing Galactic tech and doesn't know it."

"Maybe you can bring him into the fold? Give him some of his own tech."

She considered it. "Maybe. He seems like a black and white kind of guy. I'm not sure how he'll react to the story about Deep Thought, Earth and Magrathea."

"Yeah. I don't live on Earth and even I have a tough time dealing with it sometime. Why don't you hold off and I'll see what I can do to get you some help."

"Thanks."


	6. Chapter 4

It doesn't matter where or even _what_ you are in the Galaxy; a shared, deeply emotional experience either brings beings closer together or it pushes them apart. Rarely do things stay the same. And nearly being killed by a strange man with a gun who then vanishes definitely qualifies as an emotional experience.

As he arrived home from work, Oliver feared that the afternoon's events had pushed him, Felicity and Diggle apart. He was surprised at how disappointed he was by that. After all, he barely knew Felicity Smoak and he and Diggle had always had a strictly professional relationship. It wasn't as if the three of them were pals. Yet there had been a moment back in his office when he could have sworn with certainty that he was where he was meant to be - and that Felicity and Diggle were meant to be there, too. It was as if the pictures on some cosmic slot machine had aligned and he'd been staring at three cherries.

It was clear that Felicity Smoak didn't feel the same, because she'd been subdued and almost seemed angry when Diggle had dropped her off at her apartment. Oliver had asked several times in the car whether she was all right and each time her response had been the same; she was fine, she didn't want someone to stay with her, and she would be back in the office tomorrow morning. Oliver figured that his female-reading skills were as good as the next man's (which is to say, not very good at all), and he'd eventually accepted that he wasn't going to get to the bottom of what was bothering her. So he'd stopped asking and promised himself he'd try again tomorrow.

Had Oliver had access to _Cosmipedia_ , he could have looked up _effective male-female_ _communications_ on the Galactic web. The entry probably wouldn't have helped very much, however. It consists of two words:

 _Good luck._

Oliver found John Diggle's response even more worrisome, especially since there was no female-to-male translation involved. As they took the elevator up to the penthouse, the bodyguard stared glumly at his shoes and was more taciturn than usual. It was the heavy silence of a man who wanted to say something but didn't know where to begin.

When they reached the 42nd floor and the door began to slide open, Diggle abruptly hit the button to close it again, leaving them suspended just outside Oliver's hallway. Oliver didn't ask why; he was relieved that Dig had apparently decided to speak. He continued facing the door and waited, giving Diggle space.

After several false starts Dig finally blurted out, "I gotta apologize, Oliver," and continued looking at the floor.

Oliver frowned. This was not what he was expecting. _Apologize_? The man had saved his life that afternoon. He replied quietly, "I don't understand, John."

Diggle turned and reluctantly met Oliver's eyes. He'd tidied up after tackling the intruder, but his straightened tie and neat shirt only made the ripped shoulder of his dark suit jacket more noticeable. It made Oliver think for an instant of a new teddy bear with a torn seam in its arm before he quickly chided himself. No one could _ever_ compare Diggle to a teddy bear.

"I made a rookie mistake today," Dig said. "I should have recognized that the disturbance in the lobby was a diversion. By going down there I almost got you killed. Felicity, too, maybe. You'd be well within your rights to fire me."

Fire him? When the man had taken down an assassin? Oliver's first instinct was to tell Diggle that an apology wasn't warranted let alone a firing, but he forced himself to stop. For a man like Diggle - a man who demanded nothing less than perfection from himself - a simple _it's not your fault_ wouldn't help. Oliver knew this because, deep down, he wasn't so very different. So he said instead, "I don't know, John. It's not obvious to me that you made a mistake at all." He saw Diggle's eyes narrow and continued, "I'm sure when you took this job three years ago there were a number of people who told you I didn't need a bodyguard – that I was a paranoid rich guy with a worried mother. My yacht went down and I couldn't accept responsibility for not sailing it properly, so I made up some story about sabotage."

Diggle stared at him and didn't disagree.

"And really," Oliver went on, "when you think about it, not much has happened over the last three years to prove that theory wrong."

Diggle thought about it. "There was the time your Porsche burned up," he offered.

Oliver nodded.

"And the Ferrari after that."

Oliver nodded again. "True. But they were both attributed to mechanical failures. The investigator told me they were just idiosyncrasies of high performance cars. And in both instances I had plenty of time to pull over to the side of the road and get out. So I'm not sure they really count as murder attempts."

There was the tiniest lift to the corners of Diggle's mouth. "Fair enough. What's your point in telling me this, Oliver?"

Oliver shrugged. "My point is that these situations are not clear; they're open to interpretation. And when we're in the middle of them we don't get a lot of time to analyze the possibilities. It could have been that the people in the lobby today were the real threat and not the diversion. It could have been that there was no threat at all. History certainly didn't suggest there would be." He lifted his hand to pat Diggle on the shoulder and then stopped. He wasn't certain they had reached that stage in their relationship. "In the end, John, you _were_ there in time and you _did_ save my life. And frankly, if it has you calling me 'Oliver' now instead of 'Mr. Queen,' then I'm thinking it wasn't such a bad thing."

The lift in Diggle's mouth didn't progress to a full smile, but he at least looked less morose. He stood there for a few more seconds, then turned and tapped the button to open the elevator door. They walked into the hallway. "Well, after today, _Oliver_ , I think we can throw the _paranoid rich guy_ theory off the table. That was a genuine attempt on your life. So I'm going to give your place a particularly careful going over right now."

The bodyguard glanced down at his wrist and added, "And thanks to your intruder, I've already got my 10,000 steps for the day so I can skip the cardio tonight."

* * *

Diggle meant what he said about being thorough. He made Oliver wait in the kitchen for 20 minutes while he performed a careful search of the apartment.

"It looks okay," he stated when he returned to the kitchen, "although I think we should consider installing video surveillance. It would be more likely to catch someone who plants something while you're away – like a bomb, for example."

Oliver frowned. "I've already got an alarm system. And I don't like the idea of being filmed in my own apartment." Especially, he thought, on the evenings Isabel stayed over. He didn't want to contribute to the vast library of sex tapes posted on the internet.

Diggle shrugged. "We can turn the video off when you're at home. Or, if you don't like that idea, we could get a bomb-sniffing dog. I can check for people, Oliver, but hidden electronics or chemicals aren't so simple to find. Think about it."

Oliver nodded noncommittally and didn't say anything. He wasn't crazy about either suggestion, but he didn't have the energy to debate it at the moment. And he didn't want to appear ungrateful to the man who had so recently saved his life. He was happy that the two of them seemed to be returning to some sort of accord.

"We should also start working on the list of people who might want you dead," Diggle continued. "I know we agreed to no police this afternoon-"

"Mainly because there was no evidence for them to work with," Oliver interjected.

"- but the best way to protect you is to figure out who tried to kill you and why. Then we can put a permanent stop to it."

Oliver thought about it. "I don't disagree, John. But given that I'm CEO of a technology company and fairly well known – at least in Star City - I don't know where to start. It could be any wingnut who has a beef with Queen Consolidated or someone who just doesn't like wealthy people."

Diggle nodded and didn't push it. He said, "We can talk about this more later. As for tonight - are you going to be okay alone? You had a pretty tough afternoon."

Oliver smiled weakly. "I'm fine. I'm going to stay in and do a little work." He glanced regretfully at the case holding his new bow, still resting in the hallway outside the kitchen. The archery range was going to have to wait.

"Maybe you should skip work for one night. Relax. Have a drink, watch a movie on TV. The body reacts to trauma in strange ways and your afternoon was pretty damn traumatic. You seem calm now, but it may all catch up with you later."

Oliver shook his head. "I need to make sure nothing important came in through my email. I haven't looked at it since the morning and I'll pay for it in the office tomorrow if I don't check."

Diggle studied him for a few more seconds and then held up one hand. "Okay. You know yourself better than anyone. Just call if you start feeling panicked…or need me to mediate any arguments with your laptop." There was a twinkle in his dark eyes.

Oliver smiled, relieved that the two of them were back on solid footing. "Thank you, John."

After Diggle left, Oliver placed his laptop on the kitchen table and turned it on. The screen lit up quickly but Joan remained quiet. He wondered if she was busy processing the afternoon's events or just observing his apartment. Knowing Joan, he thought the latter more likely.

"Joan," he asked as he rummaged through his refrigerator, "can you pull up the file Ted McGreevy sent me on Felicity Smoak?"

A short pause. "Will do, Oliver." He was grateful she didn't comment further. Maybe, like Diggle, she understood that he needed peace and quiet.

Raisa hadn't come by during the day, but he saw that the refrigerator still held fried chicken from her last visit. It looked crispy and delicious, and he placed two pieces on a plate, not bothering to heat them. Nearly being killed must give you an appetite, he thought. He also saw that there was a bottle of white wine in the fridge and decided to break custom and pour a large glass. He thought Diggle would approve; the man had suggested a drink to relax. As he carried his dinner to the table, Oliver wondered vaguely what his bodyguard was doing to unwind. Probably drinking a large protein shake and dropping to the floor for 50 push ups.

He sat down with his chicken and wine and started reading Felicity's file. Ted McGreevy was right; the girl's education was impressive. She'd entered MIT on a full scholarship at sixteen and graduated with a Master's degree in Computer Science at the age of twenty. As with all employees, Queen Consolidated had performed a background check to search for criminal convictions or unusual affiliations. Felicity's check had revealed that she'd lived with her mother in Las Vegas while attending high school and hadn't belonged to any clubs. The years before high school were sketchier; her school and location of residence were listed as unknown. And there was no information at all on her father. She also seemed to have fallen off the radar for a year between graduating MIT and coming to work for QC. That seemed a little odd.

Oliver was scrolling down to her latest (and only) performance review when the intercom buzzed, letting him know he had a visitor in the lobby. He thought about the possibilities and decided not to answer it. There was a better than even chance that Isabel had called his mother and Moira Queen was stopping by to tell her son in person that he should accept Isabel's EA offer. He didn't feel hearing her arguments and gave silent thanks that he'd never shared his elevator security code with her.

His phone vibrated on the table. He held his breath and looked at it; Tommy – not his mother. He exhaled and picked up the phone.

"What's up?" he answered, skipping the preliminaries.

"Are you home?"

Oliver paused. "Maybe. Why?"

Tommy laughed. "I'm going to interpret that as a _yes_. I was hoping to mooch dinner. I was in a nearby restaurant with Laurel and my dad and they started tag-teaming me about a job before we even got to the appetizers. I didn't feel like listening to them, so I left and came to your apartment. Can you feed me?"

Oliver glanced at the laptop and sighed. It seemed like the world was conspiring to keep him from getting work done; if it wasn't a homicidal stranger with a gun, it was his best friend behaving immaturely. Then Oliver remembered that he hadn't answered the doorbell because he was avoiding his mother - and softened his opinion about Tommy's maturity.

He scrolled quickly down Felicity's file. It was interesting, but there really wasn't much more to read. And while there were 70 new emails in his inbox, he decided that Diggle was right – they could wait. Tommy's dad, Malcolm Merlyn, could be a real hard-ass. He had a feeling Tommy needed to talk. He replied, "Hang on – I'll buzz you in," and walked over to press the button.

Two minutes later Tommy entered the kitchen. There was less bounce in his step than the last time he had dropped by and the smile on his face seemed a little forced. Oliver had no doubt that his father's lecture had upset him – even if he didn't want to admit it.

Still, his friend managed to speak cheerfully. "What's on the menu?" he asked.

Oliver pointed to his plate and wine glass. "Fried chicken and Pinot Grigio."

"No veggies? You're supposed to get five servings a day."

Oliver shrugged, not in the mood for Tommy's ribbing. "I had salad for lunch and then a difficult afternoon, so I decided I'd already met my vegetable quota for the day. I just got home from the office and was working when you called." He gestured toward the laptop as evidence. "Chicken and wine - take it or leave it, Tommy."

Tommy held up his hands. "Whoa, buddy. Fried chicken sounds great – as long as it doesn't come with a lecture about responsibility and wasting my life."

Oliver shook his head. "It won't. Have a seat and I'll get you a plate." He headed toward the refrigerator.

Tommy sat at the table and glanced casually at Oliver's laptop. Then he gave a low whistle and leaned forward to study it more carefully.

"Holy cow," he said to Oliver. "This is _work_? Who's the blonde cutie?"

Oliver returned with Tommy's plate of chicken. His friend was examining the photo of Felicity at the top of her file. It was the head shot taken on every employee's first day of work for use on their badge. Unlike most employees, Felicity had the rare luck of looking good in her picture. She wore her glasses and a smile small, and her hair was tumbled over her shoulders instead of in the ponytail Oliver was used to seeing. He hated to be sexist, but he had to admit that if he were seeing her for the first time he would never guess that she was a computer scientist.

Oliver slid the plate in front of Tommy and went to fetch a wine glass. "That's one of our IT employees," he said over his shoulder. "She's filling in as my executive assistant after my regular guy quit." He felt an urge to close the laptop. For some reason it bothered him to see Tommy ogle Felicity Smoak, as if she were just a pretty woman and not…Felicity.

Tommy's eyebrows went up. "Your EA?" he repeated. "You mean the employee who screens your calls, goes to meetings with you, travels with you, ghost-writes speeches and presentations for you and is generally glued to your side ten hours a day?" He shook his head. "I've met my dad's EA and – believe me – he doesn't look anything like this."

Oliver handed Tommy his wine and resumed his seat at the table. "She's very capable," he replied, hoping he didn't sound defensive. "She's got a degree from MIT and she's smart enough that HR and I are talking about making the position permanent."

"Your permanent EA?" Tommy started to laugh and then stopped when he caught sight of Oliver's face. "Oh…oh you're serious. Wow, Oliver. I never thought you'd actually take me up on my request."

Oliver frowned. "Request?"

"You remember – when I asked you to do something irresponsible; something your mother or the business community wouldn't like?" He put down his wine and gave up trying to hold back his laughter. "I gotta tell you," he pointed at the photo with a snicker, "this would really fit the bill. If you make her your EA, people will think you've lost it. They'll figure your brain is on holiday and Little Oliver has taken over."

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything Joan spoke up. He was a little surprised that she hadn't done so already. "I find it sad," she said primly, "that men only seem to be able to focus on a woman's physical appearance. Felicity is very talented and has a far bigger IQ than either of the humans in this room."

Tommy jumped in his chair.

"Who the hell was that?" he asked Oliver. He glanced nervously towards the kitchen doorway. "Isabel isn't here, is she?"

Oliver smiled and shook his head. "No."

"Then who-?"

Oliver pointed to the laptop. "Tommy, meet Joan." Tommy's eyes moved to stare at the machine and Oliver continued, "Joan, meet Tommy. Tommy and I have known each other since we were eight years old."

"And apparently he hasn't grown up much since then," Joan replied. Her processor purred softly for a few seconds. "I see his name in some of your email. Tommy Merlyn, correct?"

"That's right," Oliver confirmed.

Tommy looked up at Oliver. "What exactly is this?" he asked. "Alexa's bitchier sister?"

Oliver hesitated. The last time he'd referred to Joan as _artificial intelligence_ she'd gotten a little upset. So he said instead, "Joan is kind of like another assistant to me. She helps with email and online research."

"But it's software, right? Not a person."

Oliver glanced warily at the laptop. "Yes, she's software. She has the capability to learn from external responses, so her program is continually evolving." He didn't mention that Joan had helped save his life that afternoon. If he told Tommy about the attack it would become general knowledge in no time and he'd be dealing with a lot of unwanted questions, including queries about not calling the police.

Tommy shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the laptop. "I don't know, Oliver. This one's weird. I mean the idea of a voice activated computer isn't new, but you'd expect it to be a little less…snarky. If this is some product you have under development at QC, I'm not sure it's going to sell."

"Says the man who has no business experience whatsoever," Joan quipped. "What's the basis for your opinion, Tommy? I just researched your educational records and I didn't find a marketing degree."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "You see what I mean?" he asked Oliver. "You've got Joan the Insult Laptop here. It might be funny for a little while, but it will get old, fast." He leaned forward and put his mouth near the laptop's microphone. "I might not have a marketing degree, _Joan_ , but I use a computer pretty regularly. And I expect mine to do what I ask and not give me attitude."

"And what do you typically ask your computer to do, given that you don't have a job? Surf porn sites all day?"

Tommy sat back in his chair. "Oh that's nice," he said sarcastically.

"I feel sorry for your computer," Joan continued. "My empathy algorithm is running in a continuous loop. After all, it can't be too stimulating alternating between YouTube videos of cute kittens and celebrity butt comparisons."

Tommy's eyes widened. Oliver had a feeling Joan had hit close to home with that one. His friend lifted his hands and shook his head, clearly searching for a comeback.

"In fact, I'll bet your computer is so bored," Joan was on a roll, "that it calculates pi to a million decimal places every hour just to keep from falling asleep."

"Joan-" Oliver warned.

She ignored him. "It's so bored," she persisted, "that it hacks the IRS to read income tax returns for entertainment. It's so bored-"

"Joan!" Oliver shouted.

"Yes?"

"I don't know what your programming says about good manners, but humans consider it rude to insult a guest. And Tommy is a guest…and a friend."

The laptop screen went dark, and a new window opened to display a scrolling line of code. "My processors are having difficulty computing _friend_ , Oliver," Joan said. "You and Tommy appear to have little in common as a basis for friendship. You're a hardworking, successful businessman and all the data points to him being a real slacker."

Tommy groaned and put his head in his hands. "I may as well have stayed at dinner with Laurel and my dad," he said to Oliver. "Your laptop is as bad as they are." He reached over and slapped half-heartedly at the screen. "Yeah, well… Joan…your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries," he finished lamely.

The laptop screen went dark once more and the kitchen was silent. Then the cursor flickered to life.

"I don't get it," Joan finally said.

Tommy's eyebrows went up. "You don't get it?" he repeated. "One of the greatest insult scenes in the history of film and Joan the Insult Laptop has never heard of it?" He grinned at Oliver. "I guess your programming geek has more work to do. Joan can't be all that brilliant if she doesn't know Monty Python."

Oliver shrugged. He thought about telling Tommy that the "programming geek" was the cute blonde he'd been ogling a short while ago but decided against it. Felicity was, after all, the reason the whole insult-fest had gotten started. And besides, something had just dawned on him.

"I need to talk to my bodyguard for a few minutes," he said to Tommy. "It shouldn't take long. Can you amuse yourself while I'm gone?"

Tommy nodded. "No problem." He took a swallow of wine and leaned back in his chair. "Are you taking the laptop?" he asked quickly, as Oliver rose and started to close Joan's cover.

Oliver shook his head, surprised. "No. I was just going to shut it down so it doesn't annoy you."

Tommy shook his head. "Don't do that. I thought Joan and I might watch a little bit of _Holy Grail_ together while we're waiting. She needs to have her horizons expanded."

* * *

John Diggle answered his door in sweat pants and a tee shirt. Oliver could recall very few times when he had seen Diggle in casual clothing, but then he hadn't stopped by Dig's place very often. That seemed odd, now that he thought about it. After all, they both lived on the 42nd floor and shared a goal to keep Oliver unharmed.

The bodyguard looked a little more human out of his dark suit; still imposing, but not entirely invincible.

"I remembered something about this afternoon," Oliver said to Dig, skipping any kind of greeting, "and I wanted to discuss it with you. Do you have a minute?" It occurred to him rather late that Diggle might have company or prefer not to think about work when he wasn't on the clock.

But Diggle nodded. "Sure, no problem." He opened the door wider and stepped back. "I was just finishing dinner. Do you mind sitting with me at the table?"

"Not at all."

Dig's door led directly into a combination living and dining room, with the table situated on the far side from the entry, just outside a galley kitchen. Diggle's apartment was about a third the size of Oliver's, and Oliver was fairly certain he'd decorated it himself. The place was overwhelmingly masculine – dark colors and outdoor pictures – but also homey. The brown leather furniture was brightened by colorful accents like an afghan over the back of the sofa, and Dig had placed unusual bowls and vases on the end tables. Many of the items looked like they came from other countries, making Oliver wonder about Dig's life prior to becoming his bodyguard. He made a mental note to ask Diggle about it in the near future.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your meal," he said as they sat down. He glanced at Dig's half-eaten plate. "That looks good."

Diggle looked down and shrugged. "I was nearly done," he said easily. "And it's filet mignon with béarnaise sauce."

Evidently the man didn't subsist purely on protein shakes. "I didn't know you could cook," Oliver said, surprised.

Diggle shook his head. "Oh, I didn't cook this. Your housekeeper left it for me."

"Raisa?"

Diggle nodded. "Yup. I'm pretty sure she stocks my refrigerator the same days she refills yours."

"And you got filet?"

"Yeah. Why, what did you have for dinner?"

"Fried chicken."

Diggle sat back in his chair and studied his plate more closely. "Interesting." He raised his eyes to meet Oliver's. "Are you upset about me getting filet and you getting chicken?"

Oliver considered it and shook his head. "No," he replied honestly. "I was in the mood for fried chicken tonight. And Raisa's is pretty damn good."

Diggle nodded. "Maybe we should compare what she leaves in the future in case we want to trade," he suggested. The small lift to the corners of his mouth from earlier in the evening was back.

Oliver chuckled. "Maybe."

They were both quiet as Diggle ate a few mouthfuls of the filet. Then he put his fork down and looked at Oliver. "So what did you remember from this afternoon that you wanted to talk about?" he asked.

Oliver took a deep breath. His idea was half-formed, not a certainty. He was curious to hear Diggle's reaction. "I'm not sure I was the real target of the attack today," he said slowly, "or at least not the _only_ target. I think the guy might have been after Felicity, too."

Diggle frowned. "Felicity? Why would you think that?"

Oliver looked at one of the prints hanging on Diggle's wall. It was a photo of the Grand Canyon at sunset and the oranges and yellows complemented Dig's furniture nicely. "Well, first of all, the guy was pointing his gun at Felicity when you came in. At the time I thought he was doing it to stop her from calling the police. But now I'm not so sure."

"Because?"

Oliver struggled to put his rationale into words. "Because she's brilliant, to start with. My friend, Tommy, stopped by my place tonight. I was using my laptop and Joan made an appearance. She gave Tommy a hard time about being lazy."

Diggle smirked but made no comment. He'd met Tommy numerous times when Oliver had attended social functions and Oliver would be willing to bet Dig's opinion of Tommy was similar to Joan's. "Tommy's first reaction was that Joan was a breakthrough product that QC was planning to sell," Oliver continued, "and it dawned on me that there isn't any AI software close to being that sophisticated on the market. Felicity's written something with the potential to become a billion dollar industry. She's a huge competitive advantage for QC."

Diggle looked skeptical. "I agree she's very talented and can do good things for your company," he said. "But wouldn't another company just try to hire her away from QC then? Offer her more money and a big promotion? Killing her seems a little extreme."

"Maybe," Oliver agreed. "But it could be that they've made offers and she's turned them down. Plus, there's something else."

"Which is?"

"I'm also pretty sure she's a hacker."

Diggle's eyebrows went up. "A hacker?"

"She's had information on other companies that should not be publicly available. I can't imagine how she got access to that information other than by hacking."

"Have you asked her?"

"Not yet, but I plan to."

Diggle pondered that. "Well, it's a more plausible reason for someone to come after her, but I still think killing her is an overreaction. Corporate espionage happens, even if it isn't ethical." He picked up his glass of water. "Did the intruder point his gun at Felicity only, or did he point it at you as well."

"He pointed it at me first and then Felicity."

Dig took a sip from his glass. "Then I think we still have to assume that you were the primary target, Oliver."

Oliver nodded reluctantly. Diggle had more experience with this stuff and he knew he should defer to the man's judgment. However, he wasn't ready to give up the Felicity theory entirely. "Okay," he agreed, "maybe so. But I'd still like to keep a close eye on her until we've figured all this out." _If_ they ever managed to figure it out, he thought. "I decided tonight that I'm going to make her my permanent EA," he continued. "She's doing amazing work – and I don't seem to be having much luck hiring anyone else. If she works for me, you and I can both be there if anyone threatens her."

Diggle stared at him for a few seconds. Then the small lift at the corners of his mouth reappeared and morphed into a rare, full-blown grin. It wasn't the reaction Oliver was expecting.

"Something funny, John?" he asked.

"Just remembering you showing her your bow in the office this afternoon. You seemed very…comfortable with her. I don't think I've ever really seen you touch another employee – male or female – except for a business handshake." He sobered slightly when Oliver didn't return his grin. "I'm sure that has nothing to do with you offering her the job, though," he said more seriously.

Oliver glowered. "It doesn't."

"Right."

"She's highly qualified," Oliver continued defensively. "McGreevy and I discussed her and he's on board with giving her the job. I think folks at QC will understand."

"And outside of QC? _Isabel_ won't question it?"

Oliver was surprised; it was a pretty personal question, especially for Diggle. Then he smiled. Apparently traumatic events were going to bring Dig and him closer together after all, he thought. Until tonight, the man would never have dared comment on his girlfriend - or indeed anything private for that matter. But they seemed to have crossed a threshold and become something more than bodyguard and client, even if not quite friends. Oliver was happy for it. Diggle was a smart, worldly man, and he didn't constantly recall Oliver's youthful mistakes, unlike most of the people in his life. Talking to him was easy.

Oliver sighed. "Yes, I'm sure _she'll_ question it. I'll just have to find some way to… help her get over it."

Diggle's grin returned. "You're a better man than I, Oliver."

"Stupider, more likely."

Dig shrugged. "Well, if it makes you feel better, I admire your taste. Felicity Smoak is a unique woman. And she handled events this afternoon like a pro. Most people would have been shaking in their shoes."

"Are you sure she wasn't? She got awfully quiet on the ride home."

Diggle shook his head. "She's fine. She's just processing in her own way, the same as you."

"Well, we should talk to her tomorrow just to be sure."

Dig laughed. " _We_ , meaning _you_?"

" _We_ , meaning _both of us_. You're the expert on people's reactions to nearly getting killed."

"I suppose that's true." Diggle's grin disappeared. "You do understand, Oliver, that _you're_ my client in this situation, right? Not Felicity," he said soberly.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if something happens where I have to make a choice between saving you or her, I'm going to save you first. I'll help her afterward if I can, but you're my first responsibility."

Oliver frowned, not liking to think about that possibility. "I hope it never comes to that, John."

"I hope so, too."


	7. Chapter 5

Oliver broke the news about Felicity to Isabel on Friday night when the two of them were in bed. They'd chosen to go to his apartment after dinner; partly because it was closer to the restaurant, but mostly because Isabel had taken them to a new fusion place with a fancy name that Oliver was sure translated to _tiny portions at very high prices._ It had been clear right from the appetizer that the chef was more interested in artistic presentation than in satisfying caloric needs. If they stayed at his place, Oliver figured he could find something in the refrigerator when hunger pangs hit in the middle of the night. Isabel's fridge wasn't such a safe bet.

He waited until after sex to tell her. A cynical interpretation of this approach would be that Oliver was selfish and didn't want to risk not getting his groove on by raising the subject of a pretty blonde prior to…entry. Oliver, on the other hand, preferred to think that he was being strategic and practical. Two driven and stressed adults are less likely to have a rational conversation than two adults who have just released a lot of tension. And Isabel was a master at releasing tension - both his and her own.

There were evenings when he wondered if she'd memorized every magazine article entitled: _How to be a Tigress in Bed_. Oliver was by no means lacking experience, but the woman did things that figuratively blew his mind…and blew other parts of him much more literally. It was satisfying, although – if he were completely honest – at times a little mechanical and soulless; as if she were following an instruction manual for pleasure rather than showing real affection. But then Oliver had long since given up expecting love, passion and sex to fuse together. Years of observing relationships, including his parent's, made him question whether it was even possible, and dating Laurel hadn't helped either. At least with Isabel he was able to achieve a state of utter relaxation and not feel like a hypocrite, because he didn't think her expectations were any different than his.

"You're kidding, right?" Isabel asked lazily, when he told her about Felicity. "You're saying this just to tease me." She was lying on her back, propped up on the pillows. A light sheen of sweat coated her naked body.

Oliver, lying next to her in a similar state, shook his head. "No, I'm not kidding. Felicity's done a fantastic job filling in as EA. In some ways, she's better than Sam. She's earned the right to show what she can do in the job and I need the help."

"Then why don't you send her to work for me?" Isabel suggested. "You can take me up on my offer to make Sebastian your EA and Felicity can get her feet wet doing the job at a smaller company. I'd love to show her the ropes. It's a win-win."

An image of a sharp-toothed piranha chasing a cute guppy unexpectedly flashed through Oliver's mind. It was a strange thing to think of at the moment and he decided not to dwell on it.

He reached down to pull the sheet from the foot of the bed up over both of them. Now that his heart rate was easing back to normal, he was starting to feel a little cool. "This isn't baseball," he said to Isabel. "We don't trade employees the way teams trade players. She came to QC because that's where she wants to work. I can't tell her she works for another company now."

"Sure you can," Isabel replied easily. "You tell her that it's part of her career development plan. She'll be fine with it."

Oliver closed his eyes. Sometimes his girlfriend's self-assuredness could be irritating. Maybe his post-sex strategy wasn't going to work after all, he thought. Isabel still seemed relaxed, but he could feel his own stupor starting to ebb. "I really don't think she _will_ be fine with it," he said, opening his eyes again and staring at the ceiling. "It's not as if it's normal business practice. And anyway," he added more firmly, "I already offered Felicity the job and she's accepted. I'm not taking back the offer now."

Felicity had seemed happy about it, too, he recalled. Whatever had been bothering her after her near-death experience in his office evidently was no longer an issue. Her face had brightened, causing her dimples to make an appearance, and she'd promptly moved her things into Sam's old work area. Diggle had even helped her carry her boxes…after giving Oliver an amused look.

Isabel rolled onto her side to face him and raised an eyebrow. "You already made the offer? I'm surprised at you, Oliver. You're usually a little more cautious about big decisions." She propped herself up on one elbow. "What's your board of directors going to think when they find out your new right-hand man is a twenty-two year old girl? They'll question your judgment for sure."

"They will at the beginning," Oliver agreed. "Once they see what she can do, though, they'll accept her. And McGreevy's going to help smooth things over."

"Hmmm." She sounded unconvinced.

He watched a spider make its way slowly across the ceiling. Its movement reminded him a little of Isabel; it appeared random, but he'd be willing to bet there was a purpose behind it. Something about her words struck him.

"How did you know Felicity is twenty-two?" he asked.

"What?" Her forehead creased and she looked confused.

"You just said, 'what's your board of directors going to think when they find out your new right-hand man is a twenty-two year old girl.' How did you know Felicity is twenty-two?"

The crease over her brow smoothed as she smiled. "You told me."

"No, I didn't."

"You must have."

Oliver shook his head. "I couldn't have. _I_ didn't know her age until a couple of nights ago when I read her file. This is the first time we've talked since then."

Isabel narrowed her eyes. "Well, I heard it somewhere. Maybe from your mother?"

Oliver shook his head again, ready to discount the likelihood. After all, his mother didn't have access to QC personnel records and he hadn't said anything to her about Felicity's age either. Then he thought further. It would be entirely like Moira Queen to do some digging on her own if she were worried. She'd never been shy about using private investigators when she couldn't get the information she wanted simply by asking. And it would also be like his mother to share what she learned with Isobel if it furthered her agenda.

He rolled onto his side and studied his girlfriend, wondering what she wasn't telling him. Her wide-set brown eyes and slender frame gave her a fragile appearance – which was so far from the truth that he wanted to smile. She was a shrewd businesswoman; some might say ruthless. He'd never seen it himself, but there were stories told by her employees about grown men leaving her office in tears. It surprised him that she seemed worried – almost threatened – by Felicity. Given Isabel's success and self-confidence, it didn't make sense.

"I don't understand where this is coming from," he said. "You usually trust my business decisions, and it's no skin off your nose if I fall on my face with this one. Are you worried about me working with a woman?" he asked her. "Because you shouldn't be."

Isabel chuckled confidently. "Please. I'm just thinking of your reputation and, to be honest, my reputation, too. I like being half of Star City's power couple. It opens doors for me and gets publicity for my company. That goes away if the business community thinks you're losing your CEO mojo and getting distracted by your EA." She smiled. "As for your little blonde; I've never met Felicity Smoak, but I'm pretty sure she can't do what I did to you a little while ago." She reached over and ran one long, painted fingernail lightly down his chest. "I think there are few women who could."

That, Oliver figured, was an understatement.

Isabel continued, "But speaking of your mother – have you told _her_ about your decision yet? I don't think she's going to be happy."

That also was an understatement.

"No, I haven't told her," Oliver replied. "But I will and she'll get over it…eventually," he added, with an assurance he didn't feel. "When push comes to shove, she appreciates what's good for the business. And Felicity is good."

Isabel pursed her lips. "Maybe she'll accept it," she said doubtfully. "You can break the news to her tomorrow night and find out."

"Why? What's tomorrow night?"

"Thea's birthday dinner."

Thea's birthday. Damn.

Oliver flopped onto his back and pulled the pillow out from under his head, putting it over his face. "I'd forgotten about the dinner," he mumbled under the pillow.

"I think your mom is counting on you to do something to make Thea happy," Isabel added, not very helpfully.

"She is," he confirmed, remembering Moira's visit to his office.

They lay there quietly for a few moments.

Then Isabel asked, "Did you at least remember to get your sister a gift?"

He closed his eyes. "No."

She pulled the pillow off his face and smiled. "Well, I guess we know what we're doing tomorrow morning. We're going shopping."

Oliver groaned. It was not at all how he wanted to spend his Saturday. For starters, he hated shopping. And more importantly, he'd hoped to get to Nockers to test his new bow. He was anxious to try it on a target that wasn't trying to shoot at him first. It had been sitting in the case in the spare bedroom now for two days.

"I'll sleep on it," he replied, hoping that inspiration would strike in the middle of the night. When she didn't say anything, he rolled onto his side facing away from her and closed his eyes.

* * *

They didn't go shopping on Saturday morning – or at least Oliver didn't. In a rare stroke of luck, inspiration really did strike in his sleep and he woke up with a gift idea that he hoped Thea would love. Inspiration must have struck Isabel a little differently, because she rose and decided that she needed to give Thea a present that was from her alone. She headed to the stores while Oliver was still sitting in his boxers in the kitchen, drinking coffee. He suspected that Isabel would try to impress both Thea and his mother by buying something expensive and trendy; jewelry or maybe a leather jacket. He also suspected that the gesture would be wasted on both.

The good news was that he was now free to go to the archery range, which pleased him immensely. He resolved to spend a little time in the gym first, however. He usually did some form of cardio several days a week but he hadn't been doing much strength training. If he was going to take up archery again, he needed to work on his upper body and his core. His personal gym on the 42nd floor was outfitted with a variety of machines, free weights, and stability and medicine balls. And today he had no excuse for not using them.

He dressed in old sweat pants and a tee shirt, filled a bottle with water, and walked over to the gym. He wasn't completely surprised to find Diggle already there, his shirt damp with sweat. Oliver knew that Dig trained in a variety of martial arts and was dedicated to maintaining a high level of skill. The heavy bag was swaying as if Dig had just gone a few rounds with it, and there was a jump rope and a few dumbbells on the floor.

Diggle gave Oliver a long look as he walked in. "Well, you don't seem to be bloodied or bruised," he said, "so either you didn't tell Isabel about Felicity or she took it better than I thought she would."

Oliver grinned. Apparently Dig's new-found familiarity was here to stay.

"I told her," he replied easily. "It went fine."

"Really?" Diggle said flatly. He picked up two of the dumbbells and began a series of bicep curls. "You said, 'Isabel, I've decided to make an attractive young woman my EA' and she said, 'oh, that's nice, Oliver?'"

Oliver glanced surreptitiously at the weight Dig was using for his biceps and nearly choked. It was as if Dig were curling with a first grader in each hand.

"We talked about it," he explained. "Isabel's worried about the impression it might make to the business world but she isn't jealous. Isabel doesn't _get_ jealous – she's a confident woman. We're in a good place – no problems."

Diggle stopped curling. "Right. That's why she left your apartment early this morning, you're at the gym, and the two of you aren't doing anything together today."

Oliver laughed. "If I'd known about your gift for sarcasm, John, I might have insisted that you keep calling me 'Mr. Queen.'" When Diggle didn't say anything, he continued, "Isabel decided to shop for a birthday gift for my sister. She left early because she was anxious to get to the stores."

"And you don't need to do the same?"

"I've got it covered."

Diggle exchanged the dumbbells for a different pair. "Good for you, Oliver. I know you don't procrastinate in the office. I'm glad to see that you're the same way when it comes to family." He began doing a military press, lifting the weights over his head to work his shoulders.

Oliver opted not to share the fact that he'd decided on Thea's gift that morning. "Thea's the only sister I've got," he said. "And frankly, I don't think she has an easy time of it at home."

Diggle didn't volunteer an opinion, even though he'd seen Oliver's mother with Thea on numerous occasions. He finished his press and put the weights down. "Since you have time, how would you feel about training together for a little while? I'm just getting started."

Oliver eyed Diggle's large upper body nervously. He suspected Dig's notion of training was more intense than his. "What did you have in mind?" he asked. "I was hoping to get to the archery range today and shoot for an hour or two."

Diggle nodded. "Oh, you'll have plenty of time for the range. I was thinking I could begin teaching you some defensive moves, in case someone comes after you again. From what Felicity told me about the attack in your office, it sounds as if you were planning to charge the intruder. There's better and worse ways to tackle a man with a gun. I'd like to show you the better ones."

"You talked to Felicity about the attack?" Oliver asked, surprised.

Dig raised his eyebrows. "That's what you just took away from my statement, Oliver – that I spoke with Felicity?" When Oliver said nothing, he shook his head and chuckled. "I think maybe Isabel should be a little more worried."

Oliver decided to ignore the inference. "Yes," he replied to Diggle, "I'd like to learn some defensive moves. What do I need to do?"

"Let's go over the mat," Diggle said. "And I'll show you."

* * *

Thea was the first to spot Oliver when he and Isabel arrived at the Queen family home for her birthday dinner. His mother and a small number of guests were clustered in a corner of the family room, talking over drinks. Oliver could tell right away that the conversation was not typical birthday fare. There was disapproval in the air and his mother's lips were pressed into that thin line that he knew all too well. And she wasn't paying the least bit of attention to Thea.

His sister walked over to meet them in the doorway. She was wearing a sleeveless black cocktail dress that looked far too sophisticated for a teenager, in his opinion. He bent to kiss her cheek. "Who's in trouble?" he asked quietly. There was no point pretending he hadn't noticed.

Thea grinned. "You are, actually."

"Me? I just got here."

His sister tossed her head. "It's something about work and your assistant. I didn't quite follow it, to tell you the truth. I just know she's been bitching about it to Laurel and Mr. Merlyn for half an hour."

"That bad, huh? Sorry you had to listen."

Thea shrugged. "I didn't mind, really. It's kind of nice that Mom isn't mad at me for a change."

Oliver glanced at Isabel. She had a definite _I told you so_ expression on her face. He exhaled loudly. "You said something to my mother, already?" he asked her. "You couldn't leave it for one day – at least until after Thea's dinner?"

Isabel stared back, her brown eyes innocent. "I didn't say a thing to your mother, Oliver. She must have found out some other way."

 _Yeah right_ , Oliver thought.

They looked at each other silently.

Then Oliver shrugged. It was possible, he supposed, that Moira had learned it from one of her sources at Queen Consolidated. The only people he'd told, however, had been Ted McGreevy and Felicity's IT boss. He didn't think either of them would have spoken to his mother. At this point, it didn't really matter; Moira knew about Felicity and she was unhappy. It wasn't going to help to argue with Isabel over how his mother had found out, particularly in front of Thea. This was supposed to be her birthday party, after all.

"Well, I guess Mom was going to learn about it at some point," he said.

Isabel said nothing.

"What exactly did she find out?" Thea asked, glancing between him and Isabel. When Oliver didn't answer immediately, she added, "C'mon, Ollie. It's my birthday. Tell me as a birthday present."

Oliver smiled. Sometimes it was hard to say _no_ to Thea. "My executive assistant at Queen Consolidated won the lottery and left the company a couple of weeks ago," he explained. "I don't remember if you ever met Sam? He was about fifty-five and used to be Dad's EA." Thea nodded. "Well," Oliver continued, "I just replaced him this week with a woman – a young woman." He had been about to include _pretty_ in addition to _young_ as an adjective for Felicity, but remembered in time that Isabel was standing there. "Mom thinks I'm nuts – and is sure the business world will think I've gone nuts, too."

Thea frowned. "If it's such a bad idea, why did you pick her?"

"Because _I_ don't think it's a bad idea. She's smart," Oliver said truthfully. "Really smart. And I like working with her."

"What's her name?"

"Felicity. Felicity Smoak."

"Can I meet her some time?"

He looked at his sister's hopeful face. "I don't see why not," he said. "You should come by the office one day after school."

Thea smiled – a broad, genuine smile that caused her eyes to sparkle. It wasn't so hard to make her happy, Oliver thought, and wondered why his mother struggled with it. All it took was a little attention and some honesty. But then, those were things that Moira Queen was reluctant to provide.

"Oliver."

Speaking of which…

His mother's voice drifted across the room and she beckoned to him. The small group she had been talking with turned to look his way and Oliver noted the faces of Malcolm Merlyn, Tommy and Laurel, and QC's CFO, Walter Steele. Walter had been a close friend of his father's and a frequent visitor to the house when Oliver was younger. Moira had worked hard to maintain the relationship after Robert Queen's death, even though it sometimes made for awkward moments. Strictly speaking, after all, Oliver was Walter's boss. He didn't like exposing his CFO to family drama any more than he suspected Walter liked seeing it. Oliver figured Moira kept Walter around as a source of information for the goings-on at Queen Consolidated. He was less certain why Walter didn't make polite excuses to avoid her more often.

Looking at the guests, it dawned on him that none of Thea's friends were there, despite the evening being in honor of her birthday. He felt a small spark of anger as he realized that his mother had stuck a seventeen-year-old with a group of adults and expected her to have a good time. Still…that was Moira Queen. Social events were seldom about actually being social.

He decided his sister deserved to laugh on her birthday – at least a little. He leaned down close to her ear.

"If you liked hearing about me being in trouble before," he whispered, "I have a feeling it's about to get even more exciting."

She giggled. "Promise?"

He sighed. "To be honest, I hope not, but there may be no escaping it."

Thea grinned, then hooked her arm into his and began pulling him across the room toward their mother. Isabel had no choice but to follow a couple of steps behind.

"Mom," Oliver greeted Moira.

"Oliver." Moira repeated. She glanced past him. "And Isabel. So nice of you to come."

There were air kisses all around.

"Hey buddy," Tommy said, slapping Oliver cheerfully on the shoulder. "Good to see you. Nice tie."

Oliver frowned. "I'm not wearing a—." He stopped when he realized the other men were in suits and ties. Oliver had opted for a sport jacket over a shirt with an open collar. Damn.

Moira glanced pointedly at Oliver's collar and said nothing.

"Oliver." Malcolm Merlyn extended his hand. "It's good to see you. Moira was just telling us about your new assistant at QC."

 _I'll bet she was_ , Oliver thought. Aloud, he said dryly, "Mom certainly has a talent for keeping up with the latest news at the company. I'm beginning to think I should offer her a job so she doesn't have to make so many phone calls to her informants." He winked at Thea and was rewarded with another smile. Walter Steele looked thoughtful.

Malcolm chuckled but Moira's mouth remained in a straight line. "If you would talk to me more often, Oliver," she said primly, "I wouldn't have to make those calls." Then her expression softened…slightly. "Why didn't you tell me about the security breach this week?"

That got everyone's attention. Laurel stopped murmuring to Tommy and turned to stare, while Thea looked up at him worriedly. Malcolm Merlyn's expression was less readable.

"Security breach?" Isabel asked, moving next to Oliver and grasping his hand. In doing so, she managed to displace Thea. "You didn't tell me anything about a security breach, Oliver."

He shrugged. "That's because there really isn't much to tell. Some guy who shouldn't have had access to the executive suite managed to make his way up there. John Diggle handled it. End of story - everything's fine."

Moira frowned. "I heard that it was more than just _some guy_. I heard the man had a gun."

"A gun?" Isabel tightened her grasp. "Someone tried to shoot you, Oliver? Why?"

Oliver did his best to look casual. "I don't know anything about a gun. I can tell you for sure that no shots were fired." So far, that was a true statement. Oliver really didn't know anything about guns in general, and Diggle had tackled the man before he'd managed to get off a shot. "And I have no idea why the man was up there, Isabel. We're fairly sure he was just some nut," he added reassuringly.

" _We_?" Oliver's mother asked.

"Diggle and I," Oliver clarified.

Isabel rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Well, I'm happy to hear you weren't hurt."

"I guess that's why you keep the big guy around," Tommy said, referring to Diggle. He peered at Oliver, probably wondering why Oliver hadn't mentioned the incident the other night at dinner. Then his eyes twinkled. "I assume your new EA wasn't there at the time?" he asked mischievously. "Because if she was, it probably would have scared her off for good."

 _Thank you, Tommy_. As much as Oliver disliked talking about the intruder, the subject of the security breach had started to make everyone forget about Felicity. Now she was the topic of conversation again, courtesy of his best friend. Oliver glared at Tommy and received a cheeky grin in response. The grin said that Tommy knew exactly what he was doing; and that he wasn't trying to be mean, just having a little fun at Oliver's expense.

"About your new assistant…" Moira began.

Oliver looked at his mother's disapproving face and suddenly thought; _I don't want to do this right now. I don't want to apologize, or defend myself, or try to diffuse the situation. I'm tired of it. I just_ _want to wish my sister a happy birthday and go home_.

He interrupted her before Moira could work up a good head of steam. "Yes…my new assistant is very good," he said matter-of-factly. He turned to Tommy. "And she actually _was_ there when the guy broke into the executive suite. We were going over some contracts at the time. She wasn't bothered by it. She's very level headed."

"Unusual, for such a young woman," Tommy said, still grinning. "I mean, the girl can't even be twenty-five."

The corners of Moira's mouth turned down.

"And so pretty, too," Tommy continued. "I would think she'd be a bit of a distraction." Oliver could tell that his friend was really enjoying himself.

His mother made a _tsk-tsk_ sound. "Oliver—," she began again.

"You've met Oliver's assistant?" Laurel said, turning to Tommy and interrupting Moira. Oliver figured two interruptions must be some kind of record. "You didn't mention that earlier," Laurel added. "When did you meet her?"

The question caught Tommy off guard and the grin disappeared from his face. Oliver saw the opportunity for a little payback. Before Tommy could come up with an explanation, he replied to Laurel, "Tommy hasn't met her, but he saw her personnel file a few nights ago when he dropped by my place looking for dinner. I guess he had an unpleasant experience at a local restaurant and was still hungry." He saw Laurel's eyes narrow as she realized it was the night Tommy had walked out on her and Malcolm. Oliver smiled at Tommy. "Speaking of which," he continued cheerfully, "Any news on the job front?"

It was Tommy's turn to glare at Oliver. Laurel and Malcolm were looking at him in much the same way that Moira was looking at Oliver – disappointed and disapproving. He gave his friend a small shrug that said; _hey_ , _what goes_ _around, comes around, buddy_ , and Tommy shrugged back. The person Oliver genuinely felt sorry for was Walter Steele; the guy was probably wishing he had stayed home to binge-watch just about anything. And Thea, of course, although she was pretty accustomed to this.

His sister looked around and cleared her throat. "So Mom," she said brightly. "What's on the menu tonight? I'm starving."

Oliver almost smiled. Thea had her own skills when it came to awkward moments.

Moira gave a small shake of her head, as if to clear it. "To be honest, I'm not sure, dear. But I asked Raisa to make one of your favorites, in honor of your birthday. So whatever it is, I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Oliver wondered if Moira knew that Thea's favorites included hot dogs and mac and cheese. _That could make the wine-pairing interesting_ , he thought. Aloud, he said, "Why don't we head to the dining room and find out?"

And without waiting for assent, he took Thea's arm and led the way.

* * *

Raisa hadn't been quite so bold as to put mac and cheese in front of Moira's company, but she had found the temerity to serve shepherd's pie; another one of Thea's favorites that didn't exactly scream _elegance_. It was served family style and Moira frowned as bowls were passed around. Thea, on the other hand, looked delighted, and Oliver had no complaints as he heaped steaming mashed potatoes on his plate.

Dinner passed without further controversy, although Oliver was willing to bet that Raisa and John Diggle were having a far merrier time in the safety of the kitchen. Birthday cake followed the meal, and then the group returned to the family room for coffee and Thea's gifts. As expected, Isabel had bought his sister an expensive bracelet that was the latest trend among the wealthy, private-school set. Thea thanked her politely, as she did with all her gift-givers. When she got to Oliver's present, however, she frowned. It was just a card.

"Money, Ollie?" she asked. "Really?"

"Open it."

She did. He watched anxiously as she read what he'd written:

 _This card entitles Thea Queen to one full day with her brother in any activity of her choosing, provided it isn't illegal, immoral, or terribly dangerous. Her brother promises there will be no business interruptions and to submit to the activity without complaint._

Thea looked up from the card and smiled - a huge, beaming smile.

"What is it?" their mother asked.

Thea read the card out loud. Isabel frowned, but didn't say anything.

"You mean it?" Thea asked Oliver.

He nodded.

An impish look crossed her face. "Suppose I say I want to spend the day at a spa for waxing and manicures?"

Oliver grimaced. "Then that's what we'll do," he said manfully.

Thea laughed. "Well, you can relax. That won't be it. Can I have time to think about it?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Ollie. This is the best present ever." She closed the card and put it carefully back in its envelope, then held onto it as if she were worried it might vanish.

* * *

Isabel Rochev shut the door to the Queen's bathroom and ran the water in the sink for good measure. When she was confident no one could hear her, she took out her phone.

He answered on the second ring. "Yes?"

"What the hell happened at Queen Consolidated this week?"

There was a pause. "Excuse me?"

"I'm at the Queen's right now. They were talking earlier about how a man with a gun made it up to Oliver's office but no one was hurt."

There was another pause – slightly longer. "That's correct."

"They also said that Felicity Smoak was there at the time."

An even longer pause; "That's also correct."

"So what the hell happened? You diverted his bodyguard; you made it up to the office and you… what? Decided she was too cute to shoot? Said, 'sorry, wrong office?' You were supposed to eliminate her."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. "I know that. But things went a little sideways. Queen fought back, for starters. Hell, he used a bow and arrow! And I'm not all that great with body occupation. I did what you said – I picked some random guy so that he couldn't be traced back to us. But every time I tried to get him to do something, I had to think it at least four times before I could get him to move. It really slows things down."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Well, we're going to have to come up with another plan and try again – soon. Oliver's made her his assistant, which means he and Felicity will be spending a lot of time together. At some point she's going to tell him about his destiny."

He was silent for a few moments. "Are you sure we're going about this the right way? She doesn't strike me as a GBI agent. And if Queen really is The One, then wouldn't be simpler to just eliminate _him_?"

Isabel shook her head. "That's our last resort. I have other plans for Oliver Queen. Right now, we just want to keep Felicity Smoak from telling Oliver who he really is."

Another heavy sigh; "Right."

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry for the wait. This is kind of a bridge chapter. It introduces Thea and gives us more hints about the bad guys, but doesn't really have a lot of action - which apparently made it hard for me to write. Edited it numerous times and finally decided just to go because I want to keep the story moving. Sorry to Olicters for putting Oliver and Isabel in bed together. Hopefully, you can see that this is not a match made in heaven.  
_

 _Thank you, rainne.2000.16 for the comments. They got me energized to sit at the PC and write._


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